Cibrarp  of  'the  ‘theological  ^eminarp 

PRINCETON  •  NEW  JERSEY 

PRESENTED  BY 

John  Stuart  Conning,  D.D. 

PZ  7  . L48  P42  1920 
Levinger,  Elma  Ehrlich,  b 
1887  . 

—  Playmates  in  Egypt  _ 


Digitized  by  the  Internet  Archive 
in  2017  with  funding  from 
Princeton  Theological  Seminary  Library 


https://archive.org/details/playmatesinegyptOOIevi 


\ 


PLAYMATES 
IN  EGYPT 


And  Other  Stories 


v: 

PLAYMATES 
IN  EGYPT 

A?td  Other  Stories 

BY 

ELMA  EHRLICH  LEVINGER 


Philadelphia 

The  Jewish  Publication  Society  of  America 
1920 


Copyright,  1920, 

BY 

The  Jewish  Publication  Society  of  America 


To  Dr.  S.  Benderly 
friend  and  teacher 
I  dedicate  this  little 
volume  of  stories 
with  admiration  and 
gratitude 


5 


PREFACE 


Dear  boys  and  girls: 

Have  you  ever  wondered  how  the  Jew¬ 
ish  holidays  started?  I  am  going  to  tell 
you  about  them  in  their  historical  order, 
beginning  with  the  first  of  our  holidays, 
Passover,  which  tells  of  the  dawn  of  free¬ 
dom  for  Israel,  just  as  the  Fourth  of  July 
is  the  birthday  of  liberty  for  the  Ameri¬ 
can  people.  We  will  follow  our  Jewish 
ancestors  through  the  wilderness  as  they 
journey  to  the  Promised  Land;  we  will 
celebrate  with  them  the  high  festivals  in 
the  golden  days  when  our  own  kings  ruled 
in  Jerusalem,  until  at  last  we  reach  the  time 
when  Rabbi  Akiba,  after  the  destruction 
of  the  second  Temple,  taught  the  Torah 
to  his  devoted  pupils.  But,  perhaps,  you 
may  not  care  to  read  the  entire  volume, 
story  after  story,  in  an  evening  or  two. 


7 


PREFACE 


And  so,  if  you  happen  to  be  one  of  those 
precise  people,  who  like  to  do  everything 
at  just  the  right  moment,  you  may  prefer 
to  read  each  story  on  the  particular  holi¬ 
day  to  which  it  relates.  This  is  a  good 
plan,  too.  And  in  case  you  are  not  sure 
in  just  what  order  the  Jewish  holidays 
come,  I  think  I  had  better  give  you  a  list 
of  them,  telling  you  what  each  holiday 
means. 

Rosh  ha-Shanah  is  the  beginning  of 
the  Jewish  year,  the  day  of  the  blowing 
of  the  shofar. 

Yom  Kippur  is  the  day  of  atonement, 
of  prayer  and  fasting,  and  reconciliation 
with  God. 

Sukkot  is  the  festival  of  the  fair  har¬ 
vest,  a  memorial  of  the  journey  in  the 
wilderness. 

Hanukkah  is  the  feast  of  lights,  to 
commemorate  the  victories  of  the  Mac¬ 
cabees  over  the  Syrians  and  the  re-dedica¬ 
tion  of  the  Temple. 


8 


PREFACE 


Purim  is  the  feast  of  Esther,  celebrat¬ 
ing  the  deliverance  of  the  Persian  Jews 
from  the  hatred  of  Haman. 

Passover  is  the  festival  in  memory  of 
the  passing  from  Egyptian  bondage  to 
freedom. 

Lag  be-'Omer  is  the  scholars’  holiday, 
associated  with  Rabbi  Alciba  and  his 
pupils,  and  the  part  he  played  in  the  Jewish 
rebellion  against  Roman  tyranny. 

Shabu'ot  is  the  festival  of  the  first- 
fruits  which  were  brought  to  the  Temple 
in  Jerusalem. 

Tish'ah  be-Ab  is  a  day  of  mourning  for 
the  destruction  of  the  Temple. 

Sabbath  of  Consolation  is  the  sab¬ 
bath  following  Tish'ah  be-Ab,  on  which 
the  fortieth  chapter  of  Isaiah,  beginning 
“  Comfort  ye,  comfort  ye,  my  people,”  is 
read. 

These  stories  first  appeared  in  the  Jezv- 
ish  Exponent ,  Union  Bulletin,  Jewish 
Child,  Jewish  Criterion,  Hebrew  Standard. 


9 


PREFACE 


The  author  wishes  to  acknowledge  her 
thanks  to  the  editors  of  these  periodicals 
for  permission  to  reprint  these  stories  in 
book  form. 


10 


CONTENTS 

PAGE 

Preface..... . . .  7 

Playmates  in  Egypt .  13 

(A  Story  for  Passover.) 

In  the  Tents  of  Israel  .  22 

(A  Story  for  Sukkot.) 

The  Dawn  of  Freedom  .  33 

(A  Story  for  Rosh  ha-Shanah.) 

The  Borrowed  Garment .  41 

(A  Story  for  Yom  Kippur.) 

The  Lad  Who  Brought  No  Offering .  55 

(A  Story  for  Shabu'ot.) 

The  Silent  Harp .  63 

(A  Story  for  Tish'ah  be-Ab.) 

The  Sprig  of  Myrtle  .  77 

(A  Story  for  Purim.) 

Friends .  99 

(A  Story  for  Hanukkah.) 

The  Great  Hope .  113 

(A  Story  for  the  Sabbath  of  Consolation.) 

The  Golden  Ring .  121 

(A  Story  for  Lag  be-'Omer.) 


11 


PLAYMATES  IN  EGYPT 

(A  Story  for  Passover.) 


Every  day,  when  the  sun  was  high  in 
the  heavens,  little  Rachel  trudged  through 
the  hot  sands  which  scorched  her  bare 
brown  feet,  a  loaf  of  black  bread  in  her 
basket  and  a  cruse  of  water  upon  her 
shoulder.  Thus  she  and  many  other  young 
children  of  the  house  of  Israel  brought 
food  and  drink  to  their  fathers  and 
mothers  and  older  brothers,  who  toiled 
from  sunrise  until  far  into  the  night  in  the 
brick-yards  of  Pharaoh,  ruler  of  Egypt. 
One  day  it  happened  that  Rachel  was  some¬ 
what  delayed  in  bringing  the  noonday  meal 
to  her  parents  and  brother,  and  she  made 
what  haste  she  could,  hurrying  beneath  the 
burning  sun.  But  her  foot  slipped,  and 
she  fell,  breaking  her  earthen  cruse  upon 
the  road  and  spilling  the  water,  that  was 


13 


PLAYMATES  IN  EGYPT 


in  it,  upon  the  ground.  Then  Rachel  sat 
down  by  the  wayside  and  wept  bitterly;  for 
she  knew  that  ere  she  could  fetch  more 
water  and  return  with  it  to  her  parents, 
they  would  be  back  at  their  task,  and,  fear¬ 
ing  the  vrhip  of  the  overseer,  would  not 
dare  to  bid  her  approach  them,  no  matter 
how  sorely  they  might  suffer  from  thirst. 

While  she  sat  thus  weeping,  she  heard 
a  kindly  voice  asking:  “Why  grievest 
thou,  maiden?”  Looking  up,  she  saw  a 
youth  of  her  own  years  standing  beside 
her.  He  was  slim  and  graceful,  and 
carried  himself  proudly,  while  the  golden 
girdle  about  his  cool  white  garments  and 
the  jewelled  band  in  his  hair  proclaimed 
him  of  some  princely  house.  And  Rachel 
drew  back  in  fear,  for  she  had  been  taught 
to  dread  every  son  of  Egypt. 

“  Be  not  frightened,  girl,”  said  the 
youth,  speaking  softly,  “  for  I  will  do  thee 
no  harm.  Tell  me  why  thou  weepest,  and 
I  will  seek  to  bring  thee  comfort,  for  no 


14 


PLAYMATES  IN  EGYPT 


one  has  ever  asked  succor  in  vain  of 
Pethis  son  of  Randor.” 

Rachel  was  now  more  frightened  than 
before,  for  Randor  was  chief  of  the  task¬ 
masters  in  the  brick-yards  of  Pharaoh,  and 
the  children  of  Israel  had  often  suffered 
through  his  hardness  of  heart.  She  would 
have  run  away  from  his  son,  but  the  boy 
detained  her,  and  spoke  comforting  words 
to  her,  until  her  fear  and  terror  had  gone. 
Then  she  told  him  of  the  misfortune  that 
had  befallen  her,  and  wept  anew  as  she 
pointed  to  the  broken  cruse ;  for  she  grieved 
that  her  poor  mother  must  toil  all  day 
without  a  drop  of  water  to  slake  her  burn¬ 
ing  thirst. 

But  Pethis  laughed  a  little,  and  drew  a 
flask  from  his  girdle  and  gave  it  to  her; 
and,  fearing  that  she  would  come  too  late 
to  her  parents,  he  himself  sought  out  their 
taskmaster,  and  bade  him  allow  little 
Rachel  to  go  to  them.  The  man  obeyed, 
though  sullenly,  for  he  knew  that  Randor, 


2 


15 


PLAYMATES  IN  EGYPT 


the  father  of  the  youth,  was  a  mighty  man 
in  Egypt. 

This  was  but  the  beginning  of  the  friend¬ 
ship  between  the  princely  boy  of  Egypt  and 
the  little  daughter  of  the  Elebrew  slaves. 
Often,  as  Rachel  passed  down  the  road  at 
noon,  after  bringing  food  and  drink  to  the 
brick-yards,  Pethis  would  start  from  the 
bushes  by  the  road-side  and  greet  her  and 
bid  her  linger  a  while,  that  they  might 
play  together.  For  the  lad  had  no  brothers 
and  sisters  of  his  own,  and  was  often  very 
lonely  for  a  play-fellow. 

First  he  would  spread  out  a  feast  for 
her  upon  the  rocks — wheaten  bread  and 
dates  and  sweet  wine — and  she  would  eat 
and  drink  and  be  satisfied,  often  wishing 
that  she  might  save  some  of  the  dainty 
food  for  her  mother,  but  trembling  lest 
any-one  might  come  to  know  of  her  friend¬ 
ship  with  the  Egyptian  prince.  Then, 
screened  by  the  shrubs — for  the  lad,  too, 
feared  lest  word  should  come  to  his  father 


16 


PLAYMATES  IN  EGYPT 


that  he  spent  many  hours  with  a  daughter 
of  the  Hebrews — the  two  would  toss  his 
golden  ball,  one  to  the  other,  or  run  races, 
which  Rachel  would  never  fail  to  win,  for 
she  was  as  fleet  of  foot  as  the  wild  gazelle 
upon  the  mountains.  Then,  wearied  with 
play  at  last,  they  would  cast  themselves 
down  to  rest  by  a  tiny  stream  of  water  that 
they  had  discovered  bubbling  among  the 
rocks.  Here  Rachel  would  weave  garlands 
from  the  flowers  Pethis  gathered  and  bind 
them  about  her  dark  braids,  as  she  told 
him  the  stories  she  had  heard  from  her 
father — of  Abraham’s  leaving  his  home 
for  a  strange  country,  of  Jacob  who 
dreamed  of  a  ladder  down  which  great, 
white-winged  angels  descended  as  he  slept, 
and  of  Joseph  whom  his  brethren  had  sold 
into  Egypt  as  a  slave.  In  his  turn,  Pethis 
would  tell  her  wondrous  tales  of  the  gods 
of  his  people  and  the  deeds  of  strength  and 
valor  wrought  by  the  noble  warriors  of 
his  father’s  house. 


17 


PLAYMATES  IN  EGYPT 


“  I  am  my  father’s  only  son,”  he  would 
cry,  raising  himself  upon  his  elbow,  and 
looking  up  into  Rachel’s  face,  his  eyes 
aglow  with  dreams.  “  Some  day  I  will 
take  his  place  and  stand  at  Pharaoh’s  right 
hand  and  ride  in  his  chariot  when  he  goes 
to  battle.  And  I  will  become  a  great 
warrior  and  the  most  powerful  man  in  all 
Egypt.  And  then,  Rachel,  I  will  take  thee 
to  wife,  and  thou  wilt  no  longer  go  about 
in  mean  rags;  nay,  thou  wilt  shine  like  a 
princess  in  gold  and  in  snowy  garments 
heavy  with  jewels.” 

“  But,  Pethis,”  Rachel  reminded  him 
one  day,  “  how  couldst  thou  take  a  despised 
daughter  of  the  Hebrews  to  wife?  ” 

Pethis  was  ready  with  his  answer.  “  I 
will  gain  Pharaoh’s  ear  and  beseech  him 
to  free  thy  people,  that  they  may  live  in 
ease  and  in  comfort,  even  as  they  did  in 
the  days  of  Joseph,”  he  promised. 

“  Then  I  wish  that  thou  wert  already  a 
man,  Pethis,”  sighed  Rachel,  “  for  my 


18 


PLAYMATES  IN  EGYPT 


people  groan  under  many  burdens,  and  my 
father  says  that,  unless  our  God  speedily 
sends  us  a  deliverer,  we  must  surely  per¬ 
ish.”  She  grieved  as  she  spoke,  never 
dreaming  how  soon  that  deliverer  was  to 
come. 

For,  ere  many  moons,  strange  rumors 
passed  among  the  Hebrews  as  they  toiled 
in  the  brick-yards,  and  Pethis  told  Rachel 
of  two  strangers  who  had  appeared  before 
Pharaoh  and  demanded  that  he  set  the 
children  of  Israel  free.  Then  an  age  of 
many  wonders  began  for  Egypt — strange 
plagues  which  made  the  land  desolate  and 
the  people  afraid,  from  Pharaoh  upon  his 
throne  to  the  slave  who  ground  the  corn 
in  the  court-yard.  Yet  Pharaoh  would  not 
listen  to  the  word  of  the  God  of  the  He¬ 
brews,  and  did  not  permit  his  slave-people 
to  depart.  The  land  groaned  in  those  days 
under  new  afflictions,  for  all  growing  things 
sickened  and  died;  the  locusts  swarmed 
above  the  land  of  Egypt;  and,  at  last,  so 


19 


PLAYMATES  IN  EGYPT 


terrible  a  darkness  covered  the  earth,  that 
no  man  from  among  the  Egyptians  dared  to 
leave  his  house,  but  remained  in  terror  and 
fear  behind  barred  doors. 

Safe  within  her  father’s  hut,  for  there 
was  light  in  the  dwelling-places  of  the  chil¬ 
dren  of  Israel,  little  Rachel  sobbed  in 
terror,  for  she  was  sore  afraid;  her  mother 
wept  also,  but  her  father  was  strong  in 
hope.  “  Fear  not,”  he  told  them,  “  for 
the  God  of  our  fathers  has  wrought  these 
wonders  through  His  servant,  Moses. 
And  still  greater  wonders  will  He  perform 
ere  Pharaoh  will  permit  us  to  depart.” 

Even  as  he  spoke,  Rachel’s  brother 
rushed  into  the  house.  “  Father,”  he 
cried,  and  his  face  was  white  with  a  strange 
terror,  “  it  is  as  the  man  of  God  has  said: 
the  Lord  has  passed  through  the  midst 
of  Egypt,  and  the  first-born  of  every  house 
of  Egypt  lies  dead — from  the  first-born  of 
Pharaoh  upon  his  throne  unto  the  first¬ 
born  of  the  captive  that  is  in  the  dungeon. 


20 


PLAYMATES  IN  EGYPT 


For  the  Lord  has  slain  the  first-born  son 
in  every  household  of  Egypt;  only  the  eld¬ 
est  of  the  sons  of  Israel  has  He  saved 
alive.” 

Then  the  father  and  mother  and  brother 
of  Rachel  praised  the  God  of  their  fathers 
that  He  had  not  afflicted  them,  and  that  the 
last  of  His  signs  and  wonders  had  come  to 
pass;  for  now  they  were  sure  that  the  time 
was  at  hand  when  He  would  lead  them  out 
of  Egypt.  But  little  Rachel  hid  her  face 
in  her  mother’s  lap,  and  wept  bitterly;  she 
knew  that  her  dear  play-fellow,  Pethis, 
was  the  first-born  of  his  father,  and  that 
she  would  never  look  upon  his  face  again. 


21 


IN  THE  TENTS  OF  ISRAEL 

(A  Story  for  Sukkot  ) 


The  desert  journey  had  been  a  weary 
one,  and  many  a  Hebrew  who  had  left  the 
land  of  Egypt  with  high  courage  in  his 
heart  had  fallen  by  the  wayside  and  per¬ 
ished.  Now  Rachel,  the  little  daughter 
of  Simon,  lay  tossing  with  fever,  while 
Deborah  her  mother  knelt  beside  her  as 
she  bathed  her  burning  face  and  hands 
from  a  cruse  of  water  which  stood  on  the 
ground  at  the  sick  child’s  head.  From  the 
camp  came  sounds  of  excited  voices,  but 
Deborah  did  not  hear  them.  Nor  did  she 
turn  when  her  husband  pulled  aside  the 
curtain  of  black  goat-skin,  which  divided 
the  rude  tent  into  two  compartments,  and 
stood  beside  her. 

“  Deborah,”  he  said,  speaking  softly, 
for  he  dreaded  waking  the  child  who  had 


22 


IN  THE  TENTS  OF  ISRAEL 


fallen  into  an  uneasy  sleep,  “  how  is  the 
little  one  ?  ” 

Deborah  shook  her  head  sadly,  her 
hands  smoothing  the  worn-out  cloak  which 
served  the  sick  girl  for  both  bed  and  cover¬ 
ing  when  the  night  grew  chill.  “  She  has 
never  been  so  ill  since  we  came  to  Kadesh,” 
she  answered  in  the  same  hushed  tones. 
“  Nay,  she  grows  weaker  every  day.”  In 
spite  of  her  efforts  to  be  brave  for  her  hus¬ 
band’s  sake,  she  began  to  sob  softly,  her 
tears  falling  upon  the  girl’s  wasted  hands. 
“  Would  we  had  remained  in  Egypt!  We 
were  slaves  in  the  brick-yards  of  Pharaoh 
and  worked  from  dawn  until  sunset 
beneath  the  whips  of  the  taskmasters. 
But  my  little  one  was  well  and  strong  and 
could  run  and  play  with  the  other  children. 
If  she  is  taken  from  me  now,  I  do  not  wish 
to  enter  the  Land  of  Promise,  which 
Moses  our  leader  says  lies  just  beyond  the 
Jordan.  If  she  die  now,  may  I,  too,  perish 
and  lie  down  to  sleep  in  the  desert  beside 


23 


IN  THE  TENTS  OF  ISRAEL 


her.”  Half  unconsciously  she  turned  to 
pick  up  a  small  branch  lying  upon  the 
ground,  and  began  to  brush  away  the  flies 
that  had  settled  upon  the  child’s  face. 
“  Were  there  no  graves  in  Egypt,”  she 
murmured  rebelliously,  “  that  he  has  taken 
us  to  perish  in  this  wilderness?  ” 

For  a  moment  Simon  was  silent.  He 
stood  looking  down  upon  her,  a  very  man 
of  the  desert,  tall  and  lithe  and  brown,  his 
eyes  keen,  his  face  hawk-like  and  thin,  a 
warrior  for  the  Lord  suddenly  fashioned 
from  a  trembling  bond-slave  of  Egypt. 
Yet  when  he  spoke  his  voice  was  heavy 
with  despair. 

“  Though  forty  days  have  passed,  the 
spies  have  not  returned,”  he  told  her  hope¬ 
lessly.  “  From  every  corner  of  the  camp 
the  people  have  gathered,  and  now  they 
cry  unto  Moses  our  leader  to  deliver  them 
from  the  wilderness.  They,  too,  are  weary 
of  the  desert,  because  they  fear  for  the 
frail  lives  of  the  old  men  and  the  little 


24 


IN  THE  TENTS  OF  ISRAEL 


children.  I  dare  not  think  of  what  will 
happen  should  the  spies  bring  back  evil 
tidings.” 

The  mother  rose  suddenly  from  the 
ground,  her  brooding  eyes  fired  with  a  new 
resolve.  “  My  child  is  dying,”  she  said. 
“  Unless  help  comes  to  her,  she  will  surely 
die  ere  sunset.  I  will  go  before  Moses,  for 
he  is  a  man  of  God,  and  his  word  will  drive 
the  fever  away.  Stay  with  the  child,  Simon, 
and  I  will  return  with  him.” 

But  her  husband  stood  between  her 
and  the  goat-skin  curtain,  barring  her  way. 
“  Nay,”  he  told  her,  “  Moses  is  not  like  the 
magicians  and  the  star-gazers  of  the  land 
of  Egypt.  He  will  use  no  enchantment  to 
restore  the  health  of  our  little  one. 
Charms  and  incantations  are  evil  in  his 
eyes.” 

Deborah  shook  her  head  unconvinced. 
“  Did  not  his  word  bring  the  plagues  down 
upon  Egypt,  even  the  last  and  heaviest 
which  slew  the  first-born  in  every  house — 


25 


IN  THE  TENTS  OF  ISRAEL 


from  the  first-born  of  Pharaoh  to  the  first¬ 
born  of  the  slave  that  is  behind  the  mill? 
Did  not  his  rod  cleave  the  waves,  that  we 
might  walk  between  them  with  dry  san¬ 
dals?  And  afterwards  did  not  his  hand 
draw  water  from  the  rock?  ” 

“  But  he  wrought  these  miracles  only  for 
Israel-— -that  we  might  be  saved,  that  we 
might  know  the  God  of  Abraham  would 
redeem  us  from  Egypt.  Do  not  go  before 
him  now  with  our  little  petitions,  for  his 
heart  is  heavy  with  all  the  woes  of  Israel.” 

“  Is  the  life  of  my  child  a  little  thing?  ” 
cried  Deborah.  And  she  pushed  past  him, 
her  lips  firm,  her  eyes  bright  with  determi¬ 
nation.  Pier  husband  looked  after  her 
sadly.  He  felt  that  if  the  little  one  died, 
the  mother’s  heart  would  surely  break  and 
she  would  be  left  to  lie  with  her  child 
beneath  the  desert  sands. 

In  the  midst  of  the  camp  the  folk  of 
Israel  had  gathered  about  Moses,  their 
leader,  some  sullen  with  the  despair  of 


26 


IN  THE  TENTS  OF  ISRAEL 


waiting,  some  shrill  with  frightened  anger. 
For  who  knew,  they  asked  among  them¬ 
selves,  that  Moses  had  not  sent  out  his 
twelve  strong  men,  leaders  in  their  tribes, 
that  they  might  perish  in  the  strange 
countries  on  the  Jordan  and  no  longer  rival 
him  in  the  camp?  So  low  had  their  fears 
brought  them,  that  they  dared  to  slander 
the  man  of  God,  even  in  his  presence. 

Deborah  hastened  through  the  rows  of 
low,  black  tents  which  clustered  on  the  edge 
of  the  boundless,  tawny  desert.  She  gazed 
neither  to  the  right  nor  to  the  left,  but 
pressed  her  way  through  the  murmuring 
multitude,  and  paused  not  until  she  had 
stood  before  Moses,  the  man  of  God.  For 
a  moment  her  awe  choked  her,  and  she 
could  not  speak;  then  the  thought  of  the 
white  face  of  her  child  gave  her  strength, 
and  new  courage  filled  her  heart. 

“  My  little  one  is  sick  unto  death,”  she 
said,  “  and  thou  canst  save  her.” 


27 


IN  THE  TENTS  OF  ISRAEL 


A  man  in  the  crowd  laughed  scornfully. 
“Be  silent!”  he  told  her.  “While  all 
Israel  waits  to  hear  whether  we  are 
destined  to  enter  the  land  of  refuge,  is  it 
meet  to  speak  of  thy  child?  ” 

But  Moses  silenced  him  with  a  look. 
“  Would  I  could  save  thy  child,  poor 
mother,”  he  told  her  gently.  His  stern 
eyes  grew  dreamy.  “  For  dear  to  me  are 
all  weak  things — little  children  and  young 
lambs  that  have  never  wandered  from  their 
mothers’  side.  Once  when  I  was  a  shepherd 
in  Midian,  I  found  a  wee  lamb  that  had 
strayed  from  its  mother,  and  I  carried  it 
back  to  the  fold  in  my  arms,  even  as  I  have 
sought  to  carry  Israel  across  the  wilder¬ 
ness.”  He  raised  his  voice,  his  eyes  flash¬ 
ing  sudden  fire.  “  And  the  little  lamb 
trusted  me,  and  was  not  afraid;  but  Israel 
is  without  faith,  and  will  not  trust  his 
shepherd.” 

“And  my  child?”  Deborah  reminded 
him,  as  the  crowd  murmured,  shamefaced 


28 


IN  THE  TENTS  OF  ISRAEL 


beneath  his  rebuke.  “  Canst  thou  save 
her?” 

Moses  did  not  answer.  He  gazed  past 
her  beyond  the  crowd  where  a  group  of 
weary-footed  men  struggled  toward  him. 
“  They  have  come  back,”  he  said  to  him¬ 
self  rather  than  to  those  around  him,  “  they 
have  entered  the  Land  of  Promise,  the  land 
which  He  has  given  us  for  our  own.” 

A  cry  arose  from  the  assembly  as  they 
turned  to  greet  the  travellers.  The  men 
whom  Moses  had  sent  out  from  the  camp, 
that  they  might  explore  the  land  into  which 
he  had  prayed  to  lead  his  people,  now  came 
to  their  leader,  foot-sore,  and  with  dusty, 
tattered  garments,  sick  for  rest,  yet  as  men 
who  have  seen  great  things  and  are  afraid. 
Some  of  them  carried  glowing  pome¬ 
granates  and  figs,  moist  and  brown,  such 
figs  as  the  children  of  Israel  had  never 
seen,  not  even  in  fertile  Egypt.  And  two 
of  their  number,  Sethur  the  son  of  Michael 
and  Geuel  the  son  of  Machi,  carried  a  staff 


29 


IN  THE  TENTS  OF  ISRAEL 


from  which  hung  a  great  cluster  of  purple 
grapes,  bursting  with  wine. 

The  people  cried  aloud  in  their  joy;  here 
a  mother  embraced  her  son,  and  there  a 
wife  kissed  her  husband  from  among  the 
twelve;  for  those  in  the  camp  had  feared 
that  they  might  never  look  upon  their  faces 
again.  And  all  were  mad  with  joy  at  the 
tempting  fruits,  for  they  knew  now  that  the 
land  beyond  the  Jordan  must  be  a  pleasant 
land  and  fertile,  a  land  flowing  with  milk 
and  honey.  So,  unmindful  of  the  dangers 
and  the  struggles  that  still  awaited  them 
ere  they  took  the  land  for  their  own,  they 
raised  their  voices  in  thanksgiving,  and 
praised  God  in  their  joy. 

Deborah  swayed  where  she  stood. 
“  My  child  cannot  die  if  we  are  to  enter 
the  Promised  Land  so  soon,”  she  said,  and 
wondered  why  Moses  smiled  at  her  words, 
though  with  sad  eyes  that  seemed  strangely 
troubled.  Like  one  in  a  dream  she  reached 
out  her  hand,  and  plucked  several  glossy 


30 


IN  THE  TENTS  OF  ISRAEL 


grapes  from  the  cluster  the  two  men 
carried.  Then,  a  strange  hope  in  her  eyes, 
she  again  forced  her  way  through  the  half- 
mad  multitude,  never  pausing,  until  she 
reached  her  child,  still  lying  asleep,  while 
her  father  fanned  her  with  the  little  branch 
in  his  hand. 

Her  eyes  brimming  with  tears,  Deborah 
knelt  beside  the  little  one,  and  pressed  the 
juicy  grapes  between  her  fever-parched  lips. 
“  From  beyond  the  Jordan,”  she  murmured 
happily;  “  so  eat,  my  dearest  one,  eat,  and 
praise  God  who  has  brought  thee  back  to 
life.  For,  surely,  the  God  of  our  fathers 
has  heard  my  prayer,  and  thou  wilt  live  to 
enter  the  land  which  He  has  promised  unto 
us  forever.” 

Little  Rachel  stirred,  and  slowly  opened 
her  eyes.  She  looked  up  into  her  mother’s 
face,  and  tried  to  smile.  “  What  pretty 
grapes,”  she  whispered.  “  I  want  thee  to 
take  me  where  they  grow,  mother,  that 
I  may  be  well  and  strong  again.” 


3 


31 


IN  THE  TENTS  OF  ISRAEL 


And  her  mother  promised,  weeping  in 
her  joy.  For  neither  she  nor  Simon 
dreamed  that  without,  in  the  camp,  the 
children  of  Israel,  still  distrustful,  mur¬ 
mured  against  God,  who,  because  of  their 
lack  of  faith,  would  condemn  them  to  wan¬ 
der  in  the  wilderness  for  many  weary  years 
ere  they  should  enter  the  Land  of  Promise. 


32 


THE  DAWN  OF  FREEDOM 

(A  Story  for  Rosh  ha-Shanah.) 


It  was  on  the  first  day  of  the  month  of 
Tishri,  the  day  of  the  blowing  of  the 
shofar.  In  his  pleasant  gardens  in  Jeru¬ 
salem  sat  Micah  ben  Samuel,  his  thick  hair 
and  flowing  beard  as  white  as  the  flowering 
almond-trees  which  grew  beside  the  well 
near  by.  The  years  had  dimmed  the  youth¬ 
ful  fire  of  his  eyes  and  somewhat  bowed 
his  shoulders;  but  his  voice  was  the  voice 
of  a  young  man,  as  he  spoke  to  the  youth 
standing  before  him. 

“  Hadad,”  said  Micah,  speaking  kindly, 
his  fingers  playing  with  the  long  gold  chain 
which  glittered  in  the  sunshine  upon  his 
purple  robes,  “  Hadad,  I  have  sent  for  thee 
to  tell  thee  that  I  will  redeem  my  promise. 
Hast  thou  forgotten  it?  ” 

Hadad,  a  handsome  youth  of  seventeen, 
slight  and  graceful  in  his  simple  white  gar- 


33 


THE  DAWN  OF  FREEDOM 


merits,  shook  his  head.  “  No,  master,”  he 
answered.  And  his  voice  trembled  a  little 
as  he  spoke. 

“  Thou  knowest  that  to-day  is  the  day 
of  the  blowing  of  the  shofar,”  went  on 
Micah,  “  the  trumpet  that  sounds  through 
the  land  to  remind  us  that  a  new  year  has 
come  for  the  house  of  Israel.  When  it 
blows  again  in  ten  days,  on  Yom  Kippur, 
Hadad,  it  will  mean  that  all  the  slaves  who 
to-day  receive  their  freedom  will  be  per¬ 
mitted  to  leave  their  masters’  homes 
forever.” 

“  Yes,  master,”  answered  the  slave,  his 
voice  still  trembling,  his  eyes  seeking  the 
ground. 

“  And  thou  wouldst  go  back  to  thy 
desert  home,”  mused  the  old  man,  “  to  the 
tribe  that  sold  thee  into  slavery !  I  wonder, 
Hadad;  for  here  thou  art  free  in  every¬ 
thing  but  in  name,  less  a  bond-slave  to  me 
than  a  blood-brother  to  my  son,  Joash. 
Here  thou  livest  in  luxury  and  peace;  but 


34 


THE  DAWN  OF  FREEDOM 


thou  hast  told  me  that  thy  people  are  poor 
and  of  low  estate.  Surely,  thy  lot  will  not 
be  easy  when  thou  returnest  to  the  tents 
of  thy  fathers.” 

But  I  am  an  exile  in  Jerusalem,”  pro¬ 
tested  the  boy.  “  I  long  for  the  ways  of 
my  brethren  of  the  desert,  for  the  black 
tents  of  my  fathers.  Yea,  I  would  rather 
lie  upon  the  sand  beneath  the  stars  and 
gnaw  a  crust  of  black  bread,  and  drink 
miry  water,  than  drink  sweet  wine  from 
golden  goblets  and  sleep  upon  an  ivory 
couch  beneath  your  roof; — though  thou 
and  thy  son  Joash  have  been  so  kind  to 
me,”  he  added  quickly  “  that  I  have  often 
forgotten  that  I  was  thy  slave.” 

“  We  only  obeyed  the  law  of  Israel,” 
Micah  told  him.  “  Since  we  ourselves 
were  once  bondmen  in  Egypt,  we  are  com¬ 
manded  to  deal  mercifully  with  our  own 
servants  and  bondmen  within  our  gates.” 
He  smiled  a  little,  drawing  the  boy  toward 
him  with  a  kindly  gesture.  “  It  has  not 


35 


THE  DAWN  OF  FREEDOM 


been  hard  to  obey  that  commandment  and 
treat  thee  tenderly,  Hadad.  For  since  that 
day  last  spring-time  when  thou  didst  save 
my  son  Joash  at  the  risk  of  thine  own  life, 
thou  hast  been  little  less  than  a  son  to  me.” 

They  were  silent  for  a  moment,  each 
remembering  that  bright  spring  morning 
on  Micah’s  estates  in  Galilee,  young  Joash 
proudly  riding  a  great  black  stallion, 
which,  taking  fright,  would  have  flung  him 
to  the  ground,  had  not  the  desert  lad  leaped 
for  its  bridle  and  cowed  it  into  submission. 
Then  the  old  man  placed  his  hand  upon 
the  boy’s  bowed  head  as  though  in  blessing. 
“  A  son  to  me,”  he  repeated.  “  Then  it 
was  I  promised  to  set  thee  free  on  the  day 
of  the  blowing  of  the  shofar.  And  I  will 
keep  my  pledge  and  send  thee  back  to  thy 
people  with  a  purse  of  gold  and  a  golden 
chain  upon  thy  neck,  though  joash  and 
I  will  surely  miss  thee  when  thou  art  gone 
from  us  and  we  no  longer  look  upon  thy 
face.” 


36 


THE  DAWN  OF  FREEDOM 


As  they  remained  thus  in  silence, 
Azariah,  Micah’s  steward,  a  man  as  aged 
as  himself  and  a  servant  in  his  household 
from  his  youth,  came  slowly  toward  them 
beneath  the  trees,  his  head  bowed  so  low 
that  his  snowy  beard  fell  beneath  his  girdle, 
his  wrinkled  hands  beating  his  breast  in 
his  grief.  Unconsciously  Micah  clutched 
the  boy’s  arm  and  held  it  tightly,  his  face 
quivering  and  horrified  from  the  blow  he 
felt  was  about  to  descend.  And  when  he 
spoke  now,  his  voice  was  the  voice  of  a 
very  old  man. 

“  Thou  bringest  evil  tidings,  Azariah  !  ” 

Azariah  stood  before  them,  his  bony 
hands  working  in  his  beard.  At  first  he 
could  not  speak.  After  a  short  while  he 
said  in  a  low  tone,  never  raising  his 
eyes  from  the  ground.  “  A  messenger  has 
just  come  from  thy  estates  in  Galilee.  A 
swift  fever  seized  our  young  master  Joash, 
and  he  suffered  from  sunrise  to  sunset, 
when  he  died.” 


37 


THE  DAWN  OF  FREEDOM 


A  bitter  cry  broke  from  Micah’s  lips, 
for  young  Joash  was  the  light  of  his  declin¬ 
ing  years  and  his  only  child.  “  My  son,” 
he  cried  out  in  his  intense  grief,  “  my 
son !  ” 

“  I  am  here,”  whispered  Hadad,  his 
young  face  grown  white  with  pity.  A  sud¬ 
den  resolution  burned  in  his  eyes,  and  he 
flung  himself  at  his  master’s  feet,  pressing 
his  lips  to  the  old  man’s  trembling  hands. 
“  Master,”  he  pleaded,  “  do  not  send  me 
away  from  thee.  Thou  no  longer  hast  a 
son,  so  let  me  serve  thee  till  thy  death,  for 
thou  hast  been  as  a  father  to  me  all  the 
days  that  I  have  dwelt  in  thy  house.” 

“  Nay,  but  I  did  promise  to  set  thee 
free,”  Micah  reminded  him,  through  his 
tears. 

Then  Hadad  suddenly  remembered  a 
strange  sight  he  had  seen  in  the  house  of 
a  neighbor  but  a  few  months  past.  A  slave, 
desiring  that  he  might  remain  in  his  mas¬ 
ter’s  household  forever,  had  received  the 


38 


THE  DAWN  OF  FREEDOM 


“  awl  mark  ”  which  signified  that  he  would 
never  be  set  free.  His  master  had  led  him 
to  the  door-post  of  the  house,  and  with  an 
awl  had  pierced  a  hole  in  the  man’s  ear. 
And  remembering  what  he  had  seen, 
Hadad  made  his  decision. 

“  Thou  didst  not  need  me  when  thou 
didst  promise  me  my  freedom,”  he  an¬ 
swered,  “  and  I  desired  not  to  stay.  But 
now  only  death  can  drive  me  across  thy 
door-sill.  When  the  trumpet  blows  again 
on  the  tenth  day,  many  slaves  will  leave 
their  masters’  homes,  rejoicing  in  their 
freedom;  but  I  will  not  be  among  them. 
For  thou  wilt  bore  a  hole  in  mine  ear,  and 
I  will  serve  in  thy  house  forever.” 

“  But  thy  home,  thy  people?  ” 

“  This  will  be  my  homeland  henceforth, 
and  thou  wilt  continue  to  be  a  father  to  me. 
It  has  always  grieved  my  heart  that  I  could 
never  dream  of  repaying  thy  goodness  to 
me  while  I  was  a  slave  in  Israel.  But  now 
39 


THE  DAWN  OF  FREEDOM 


my  loving  service  will  soften  thy  grief  a 
little  and  be  a  ray  of  light  in  thy  darkness.” 

“  But  the  sign  of  the  awl  mark,”  warned 
the  steward,  as  Micah,  having  embraced 
the  boy,  sank  back  weeping,  covering  his 
face  with  his  robe.  “  The  sign  of  the  awl 
mark  will  mean  that  thou  wilt  be  a  slave 
forever.” 

Hadad  shook  his  head.  “  No,”  he 
reminded  Azariah,  proudly,  “  since  I  serve 
through  love  I  am  no  longer  a  slave,  and 
this  day  leads  me  into  freedom.” 


40 


THE  BORROWED  GARMENT 

(A  Story  for  Yom  Kippur.) 

It  was  in  the  golden  days  of  Israel. 
The  Temple  in  all  its  glorious  beauty  still 
stood  upon  mount  Zion,  and  men  came 
from  the  east  and  from  the  west,  from  the 
north  and  from  the  south,  to  marvel  at  its 
magnificence.  And  from  the  northern 
part  of  the  country,  from  the  tribe  of 
Naphtali,  came  Zebulun,  a  mighty  prince 
among  his  own  people,  who  in  his  twen¬ 
tieth  year  came  down  to  Jerusalem  for  the 
Feast  of  Booths  which  is  Sukkot.  But  he 
made  his  journey  to  the  city  of  David 
earlier  this  year  than  had  been  his  custom, 
and  reached  the  shining  gates  a  few  days 
before  Yom  Kippur,  the  day  on  which  the 
Jewish  maidens  changed  garments,  one 
with  another,  and  danced  in  the  purple 
vineyards. 


41 


THE  BORROWED  GARMENT 


For  after  the  solemn  rites  in  the  Temple 
were  over,  after  the  high  priest  had  offered 
up  sacrifices  and  had  entered  the  holy  of 
holies,  the  people  of  Israel,  glad  in  the 
thought  that  their  sins  had  been  forgiven, 
rejoiced  and  made  merry  late  into  the 
night.  It  was  then  that  the  young  girls 
donned  fair  garments  and  danced  in  the 
vineyards,  singing  as  they  moved. 

All  the  year  Shulammith  had  gone  in 
mean  robes  with  coarse  sandals  upon  her 
slender  feet.  Fler  father,  a  wealthy  mer¬ 
chant,  had  been  beset  by  robbers  v/hile  on 
the  road  to  Jerusalem,  despoiled  of  his 
goods,  beaten,  and  left  dying  in  the  dust  of 
the  highway.  In  a  few  months,  for  often 
there  seems  to  be  but  a  step  from  riches  to 
poverty,  Shulammith  found  herself  the  sole 
support  of  her  old  mother,  and  toiled  un¬ 
ceasingly  at  her  loom  from  early  morning 
until  sunset,  glad  when  evening  brought  her 
a  few  coins  in  order  not  to  go  supperless  to 
bed.  She  never  complained,  though  her 


42 


THE  BORROWED  GARMENT 


back  often  ached  and  her  eyes  grew  dim; 
she  even  tried  to  sing  cheerily  as  she  coiled 
her  hair  in  the  grey  dawn,  when,  fresh  from 
sleep,  she  felt  strong  enough  to  begin  her 
daily  tasks  once  more.  Perhaps  she  sang 
because  she  wished  her  old  mother  to  think 
her  happy  even  in  her  dire  poverty.  For 
Shulammith  was  too  proud  to  complain 
even  to  herself. 

But  one  bitter  sorrow  burned  in  the  girl’s 
heart,  and  gave  her  no  rest.  For  one  day, 
while  drawing  water  from  the  well,  she 
had  seen  her  reflection  in  the  blue  mirror; 
and  from  that  moment  the  thought  of  her 
reflected  picture  filled  her  with  shame. 
She  could  not  forget  how  beautiful  she  had 
been  in  the  happy  days  before  her  father’s 
death;  how,  in  her  rich  robes  and  sparkling 
jewels,  she  had  moved  like  a  princess 
worthy  of  the  praises  of  all  who  looked 
upon  her.  Now  her  garments  were  coarse 
and  drab,  since  she  dared  not  take  the  time 
from  her  work  to  weave  delicate  robes  for 


43 


THE  BORROWED  GARMENT 


her  mother  and  herself;  her  ornaments  had 
long  ago  been  sold  to  buy  bread.  She 
thought  of  herself  as  unattractive  and 
ugly,  and  when  she  met  the  companions  of 
earlier  days,  she  longed  to  run  away  and 
hide,  lest  they  mock  her  for  her  unloveli¬ 
ness. 

She  was  thinking  of  these  things  one 
morning  as  she  stood  by  the  well,  her 
pitcher  poised  upon  her  shoulder.  Al¬ 
though  she  had  not  dared  to  look  down 
upon  her  reflection  in  the  watery  mirror, 
she  knew  only  too  well  how  wretched  she 
must  appear  in  her  mean  dress,  her  face 
being  pinched  and  weary.  And  for  a 
moment  her  high  courage  deserted  her,  and 
she  began  to  weep.  Then  she  heard  the 
sound  of  a  step  on  the  stone  pavement 
beside  her,  and  sought  to  dry  her  tears; 
but  she  was  too  late,  for  Peninnah  already 
had  her  arms  about  her,  and  was  trying 
to  comfort  her. 


44 


THE  BORROWED  GARMENT 


Peninnah  was  a  few  months  older  than 
Shulammith,  a  slight,  fair  girl  with  a  faint 
smile  and  quiet  voice.  In  the  old  days  they 
had  been  warm  friends;  but  as  Peninnah’s 
father  was  among  the  wealthiest  men  of 
Jerusalem,  Shulammith  felt  that  her 
poverty  made  friendship  between  them 
impossible.  She  now  sought  to  slip  away 
after  a  mumbled  greeting,  but  Peninnah 
held  her  hand  tightly,  and  forced  Shulam¬ 
mith  to  sit  down  beside  her  upon  the  stone 
coping  of  the  well. 

“  It  is  not  good  of  thee  to  try  to  run 
away,”  she  chided,  “  when  I  have  not  seen 
thee  for  so  long.  When  I  came  to  thy 
home  thou  wast  so  busy  with  thy  loom,  that 
I  dared  not  stay  for  fear  my  chatter  would 
disturb  the  weaving.  Thou  didst  promise 
then  to  come  to  visit  me,  but  thou  hast 
never  redeemed  thy  promise.” 

Shulammith,  after  a  swift  glance  at  her 
friend’s  silken  robes  and  silver  headband, 


45 


THE  BORROWED  GARMENT 


hung  her  head.  “  I  was  ashamed,”  she 
murmured  at  last. 

“  Ashamed?  ” 

“Yes- — ashamed.”  Her  work-worn 
hand  slipped  over  her  dingy  robes,  stained 
from  her  daily  household  tasks.  “  I  have 
no  better  garments.  And  if  I  should  come 
in  these,  thy  father’s  servants  would  think 
I  was  a  beggar  and  would  not  admit  me 
into  thy  presence.”  Again  she  turned  to 
go,  and  again  Peninnah  drew  her  back. 

“  But  I  am  the  beggar,”  she  corrected. 
“  For  I  am  begging  a  favor  of  thee  for  the 
sake  of  our  old  friendship.  I  have  never 
dared  to  speak  like  this  before,  for  thou 
hast  been  so  cold  and  haughty  in  thy  mis¬ 
fortunes — even  to  thy  best  friends.  But 
when  I  saw  thee  weeping,  I  took  courage. 
Let  me  help  thee.” 

Shulammith’s  dark  eyes  flashed  angrily. 
“  In  truth,  thou  art  treating  me  like  a  beg¬ 
gar,”  she  cried. 


46 


THE  BORROWED  GARMENT 


“  No,  no,”  pleaded  her  friend,  “  I  told 
thee  I  was  the  one  to  beg  for  favors.  I 
know  thou  art  too  proud  to  come  as  thou 
art;  just  to  make  me  happy,  let  me  give 
thee  a  few  simple  garments.  I  implore 
thee,  Shulammith.” 

But  Shulammith  turned  upon  her  fiercely. 
“  Then  I  would  indeed  feel  myself  a  beg¬ 
gar,”  she  said,  her  lips  quivering,  her  eyes 
filling  with  tears.  She  lifted  her  pitcher 
upon  her  shoulder.  “  Farewell,”  she  cried, 
and  left  her  old  playmate  without  another 
word. 

Peninnah  followed  her  with  her  gaze, 
her  gentle  eyes  soft  with  pity.  Suddenly 
a  faint  smile  played  on  her  lips,  and  she 
clapped  her  hands.  “  She  still  walks  like 
a  princess,”  she  thought  fondly,  as  she 
watched  the  girl  pass  out  of  sight.  “  And 
she  will  go  robed  as  a  princess,  too,  for  she 
will  not  dare  to  deny  me  the  thing  I  mean 
to  ask  of  her.” 


i 


47 


THE  BORROWED  GARMENT 


Rosh  ha-Shanah,  the  day  of  the  blowing 
of  the  shofar  was  over,  and  now  came  Yom 
Kippur.  All  Jerusalem,  men,  women,  and 
little  children,  went  to  the  Temple  upon 
mount  Zion  for  the  holy  rites.  Seated 
beside  her  mother  in  the  Women’s  Court, 
Shulammith  gazed  with  awe  upon  the  high 
priest,  grave  and  stately,  dressed  in  the 
sacred  garments  of  that  day,  a  coat  and 
breeches  of  linen,  a  girdle  and  cap  of  the 
same  material.  Placing  his  hands  upon 
the  head  of  a  young  bull,  he  offered  up 
the  animal  in  the  name  of  his  own  family. 
He  prayed  also  for  his  fellow-priests  in 
Israel;  then  sprinkled  the  purifying  blood 
of  the  slain  animal  about  the  holy  of  holies, 
that  compartment  in  the  Temple  into 
which  no  man  might  pass  save  the  high 
priest,  and  he  only  on  the  Day  of  Atone¬ 
ment.  Two  goats  had  been  brought  before 
him,  one  chosen  by  lot  as  a  sin-offering 
for  the  Lord,  the  other  to  be  sent  away  into 
the  wilderness.  Now  the  high  priest  slew 


48 


THE  BORROWED  GARMENT 


the  goat  set  apart  for  the  Lord,  and  with 
its  blood  also  purified  the  holy  of  holies, 
in  case  it  became  defiled  during  the  year. 
Then  the  live  goat  was  brought  forward. 
Following  the  ancient  custom,  the  high 
priest  confessed  the  sins  of  all  Israel, 
prayed  that  the  animal  be  the  “  sin-offer¬ 
ing  ”  for  the  transgressions  of  the  nation, 
and  sent  it  forth  to  be  driven  out  into  the 
hills  and  the  waste  places  that  lay  beyond 
Jerusalem.  More  sacrifices  followed.  At 
last  the  high  priest  brought  forth  the  censer 
he  had  carried  into  the  holy  of  holies;  the 
lamps  were  lighted,  and  fresh  incense 
burned.  Slowly  the  heavy  clouds  of  smoke 
rose  from  the  golden  altar:  the  Day  of 
Atonement  was  over. 

Shulammith,  her  mother  leaning  on  her 
arm,  walked  slowly  to  their  humble  house, 
her  eyes  seeking  the  ground  as  they  passed 
old  friends  and  neighbors.  Among  the 
other  women  in  their  festal  garments,  she 
felt  degraded,  being  clad  in  the  coarse 


49 


THE  BORROWED  GARMENT 


robes  she  had  washed  and  pressed  for  the 
holy  day.  So  bitter  had  she  grown,  that 
when  any  one  spoke  kindly  to  her,  she 
imagined  that  they  thought  only  of  her 
mean  apparel  and  mocked  her  in  their 
hearts,  or  at  least  pitied  her;  and  this  hurt 
most  of  all.  But  she  said  not  a  word  of 
this  to  her  old  mother. 

And  when  they  came  into  their  house, 
the  two  women  cried  out  in  astonishment, 
for  upon  the  bed  lay  a  rare  robe  of  shim¬ 
mering  white,  shot  with  silver  threads,  a 
robe  fit  for  a  mighty  queen  to  wear  on  her 
bridal  day.  Upon  the  table  stood  a  carved 
casket.  It  was  open,  and  a  necklace 
of  milky  pearls  flowed  forth  from  it. 
Shulammith’s  mother  walked  up  slowly  to 
the  table,  and  lifted  the  pearls  with  tremb¬ 
ling  fingers;  but  the  girl  did  not  stir.  She 
gazed  upon  the  robe  and  the  casket  and  the 
pearls,  that  lay  beside  it,  with  widening 
eyes  like  one  in  a  dream.  Then  she 
started,  as  a  low  laugh  was  heard  from 


50 


THE  BORROWED  GARMENT 


a  corner  of  the  room,  and  Peninnah  came 
forward,  her  eyes  smiling  with  merriment. 
“Did  I  frighten  thee,  dear  one?”  she 
asked.  “  Come,  hasten,  and  put  on  these 
robes,  and  let  me  bind  the  pearls  about  thy 
hair,  for  it  grows  late.” 

“  I  cannot  take  thy  gift,”  began  Shulam- 
mith,  speaking  harshly  in  her  pride. 

But  Peninnah  only  laughed  more  merrily 
than  before.  “  Didst  thou  think  that  I 
would  let  thee  escape  our  dance  in  the 
vineyard?  ”  she  smiled,  her  eager  fingers 
busy  among  Shulammith’s  thick  curls. 
“  Last  year  we  were  close  friends;  thou 
wast  my  partner.  And  this  year  I  will  not 
go  without  thee.” 

Then  Shulammith  remembered  how  on 
Yom  Kippur  but  a  year  ago  she  had 
exchanged  her  fairest  garments  with  a  poor 
maiden  and  had  danced  happily  in  the 
girl’s  simple  robes.  And  her  cheeks  flushed 
with  shame  as  she  thought  of  her  rude 
refusal  of  Peninnah’s  kindness. 


51 


THE  BORROWED  GARMENT 


“  I  will  joyfully  exchange  garments  with 
thee,”  she  faltered,  “  but  these  I  wear  are 
my  best,  and  they  are  too  mean  for  thee.” 

“  But  I  will  be  glad  to  wear  them,” 
answered  Peninnah,  “  and  thou  wilt  plait 
my  hair  as  thou  wast  wont  to  do;  and  we 
will  dance  together.  Perhaps,”  and  she 
pinched  her  friend’s  cheek  mischievously, 
“  perhaps,  thy  dress  will  become  me  so 
well  that  some  great  prince  who  sees  us 
dance  will  seek  my  hand  in  marriage;  while 
thou  in  these  rich  garments  may  fail  to  win 
his  favor.” 

“  That  is  often  true,”  commented  Shu- 
lammith’s  mother,  nodding  wisely.  “  And 
it  was  for  that  reason  that  the  dance  in  the 
vineyards  was  planned.  For  we  are  to 
remember  not  to  praise  a  maiden  for  her 
beauty  or  her  fair  raiment,  but  for  her 
modesty  and  for  virtue;  and  on  this  day 
the  rich  maiden  cannot  rely  upon  her  orna¬ 
ments  or  her  silken  robes.” 


52 


THE  BORROWED  GARMENT 


So  the  two  maidens  went  to  the  vine¬ 
yards  together,  and  danced  with  the  others 
to  the  music  of  the  flute  and  harp.  And 
as  they  danced  they  sang  the  old  song  of 
Yom  Kippur  to  the  young  men  who  danced 
beside  them. 

O  young  man,  lift  up  thine  eyes, 

And  look  before  thou  choosest; 

Look  not  for  beauty, 

But  seek  for  good  breeding: 

False  is  grace  and  beauty  is  vain: 

A  God-fearing  woman  is  alone  worthy  of  praise. 

And  Zebulun  of  the  tribe  of  Naphtali,  a 
mighty  prince  among  his  own  people,  was 
one  of  those  who  saw  the  maidens  dance 
and  heard  them  sing.  Whether  it  was 
because  of  her  proud  beauty,  enhanced  by 
her  borrowed  garments,  or  whether  he  had 
heard  of  her  tender  care  of  her  mother,  I 
know  not;  but  seeing  Shulammith,  he  loved 
her  and  desired  her  for  his  bride.  There¬ 
fore,  when  the  Festival  of  the  Booths, 
which  is  Sukkot,  was  over,  and  he  returned 
to  his  home,  he  took  her  with  him  as  his 


53 


THE  BORROWED  GARMENT 


wife,  back  to  his  own  people;  and  her 
mother  he  took  also,  and  was  a  son  to  her 
in  her  old  age.  Thus  they  journeyed  up 
from  Jerusalem  together,  and  Shulammith 
wore  a  robe  of  white,  shot  with  silver 
threads,  and  her  dark  curls  were  bound 
with  a  fillet  of  pearls  white  as  milk.  For 
Peninnah,  whose  heart  was  overjoyed  at  her 
friend’s  good  fortune,  had  bidden  her  keep 
the  festal  robe  for  her  bridal  day,  holding 
in  exchange  the  coarse  garments  she  her¬ 
self  had  worn  when  the  maidens  of  Israel 
had  danced  in  the  purple  vineyards,  singing 
as  they  moved. 


54 


THE  LAD  WHO  BROUGHT 
NO  OFFERING 

(A  Story  for  Shabu'ot.) 

And  Ephraim  was  to  go  up  to  Jerusalem 
alone ! 

As  he  journeyed  along  the  road  leading 
to  the  city  upon  the  hills,  he  felt  not  a 
little  proud.  For  he  was  only  a  young  lad, 
scarcely  fourteen,  and  this  was  the  first 
time  he  was  journeying  to  the  Temple  with¬ 
out  his  father.  Ephraim’s  father  had  had 
great  riches;  but  little  by  little  his  vast 
estate  had  grown  smaller,  until  there  had 
been  left  only  a  few  miserable  acres.  He 
had  been  forced  to  dismiss  his  many 
men-servants  and  handmaidens  one  after 
another.  Year  by  year  the  retinue  that  fol¬ 
lowed  him  to  the  Temple  on  the  three 
great  festivals  had  grown  smaller  and 
smaller,  until  on  Passover  there  had  been 
only  one  man-servant,  and  he  a  bond-slave 


55 


THE  LAD  WHO  BROUGHT  NO  OFFERING 


with  the  awl  mark  in  his  ear,  to  follow 
Ephraim’s  parents  as  they  went  up  to  Jeru¬ 
salem  with  their  humble  offerings  in  their 
hands. 

And  after  the  feast  of  Passover  a  cruel 
plague  had  swept  the  land,  and  Ephraim’s 
mother  was  dead,  and  the  bond-servant  was 
free  from  his  master.  Nor  had  Ephraim’s 
father,  who  was  also  sorely  stricken,  even 
yet  recovered  his  strength.  As  the  feast 
of  the  first-fruits  drew  nigh,  he  realized 
that  he  would  not  be  able  to  make  the  pil¬ 
grimage  to  Jerusalem. 

“  My  son,”  he  said,  calling  the  lad  to  his 
bed,  “  thou  must  go  up  to  Jerusalem  alone 
and  take  the  offerings  of  the  first-fruits,  for 
of  all  our  house  none  but  thee  remains  to 
go  up  to  the  Temple  of  the  Lord.  Thou 
wast  but  a  little  child  then,  and  cannot 
remember  how  my  men-servants  and  maid¬ 
servants  followed  me  and  thy  mother,  sing¬ 
ing  and  rejoicing,  and  bearing  bounteous 
offerings  to  lay  upon  the  altar.  To-day  I 


56 


THE  LAD  WHO  BROUGHT  NO  OFFERING 


am  a  broken  man,  and  my  fields  are  well- 
nigh  barren.  But  the  God  of  Israel  will 
not  reject  the  offerings  of  a  humble  and  a 
grateful  heart.  Much  has  He  taken  away 
that  He  gave  in  the  days  of  my  gladness; 
yet  must  I  rejoice,  for  He  has  let  me  know 
that  through  thee,  my  son,  my  name  shall 
not  perish  in  Israel.” 

Then  he  bade  Ephraim  gather  the  best 
of  the  fruits  that  their  fields  had  yielded 
them,  and  with  his  trembling  hands  he 
arranged  the  fruits  in  a  basket  and  covered 
them  with  long,  damp  leaves,  lest  the  sun’s 
rays  should  do  them  harm.  And  Ephraim 
kissed  his  father  who  blessed  him;  and  the 
lad  departed  and  went  his  way  toward 
Jerusalem. 

At  last  he  saw  the  towers  of  the  city  of 
David,  and  his  heart  sang  for  joy.  He 
stopped  to  rest  for  a  moment,  and  smiled 
as  his  eyes  wandered  over  the  country-side 
radiant  with  the  many-hued  lilies  of  the 
field,  the  dew  still  sparkling  upon  their 


57 


THE  LAD  WHO  BROUGHT  NO  OFFERING 


petals.  Birds  sang  on  every  tree,  and,  hid¬ 
den  by  the  long  grass,  a  little  brook  gurgled 
and  laughed  and  rejoiced,  as  though  it,  too, 
were  glad  and  wished  to  praise  God  for 
His  goodness.  Suddenly  joy  died  out  of 
the  heart  of  Ephraim,  and  a  sickening 
dread  took  its  place,  for  he  saw  a  strange, 
ragged  figure  approaching  from  among 
the  trees,  and  even  before  he  heard  the 
man’s  cry :  “  Unclean  1  Unclean  1  ”  he  knew 
him  to  be  a  leper,  a  man  terribly  smitten 
and  doomed  to  pass  the  rest  of  his  days 
apart  from  his  fellow-men.  The  leper  was 
frightful  to  look  upon,  and  Ephraim  would 
have  hurried  by,  had  he  not  cried  appeal¬ 
ingly:  “  Nay,  pause  but  a  moment,  for  I 
will  do  thee  no  harm,  neither  will  I  draw 
nearer  lest  I  defile  thy  garments.” 

So  Ephraim  paused  by  the  road-side  to 
listen. 

“  My  son,”  said  the  leper,  “  all  day  have 
I  hidden  among  the  trees  and  watched  the 
happy  pilgrims  journey  to  Jerusalem.  And 


58 


THE  LAD  WHO  BROUGHT  NO  OFFERING 


my  heart  was  heavy,  for  by  reason  of  my 
affliction  I  am  shut  off  not  only  from  the 
sons  of  men,  but  even  from  the  House  of 
God.  For  the  last  three  years  I  have 
watched  the  people  of  Israel  journey  to 
Jerusalem,  bringing  the  first-fruits  of  their 
fields  with  them.  And  my  heart  well-nigh 
broke  because  I  could  not  lay  my  offerings 
before  Him.  But  now  when  I  saw  thee 
pass,  I  said:  ‘  It  is  but  a  young  lad,  and 
he  may  take  compassion  upon  me  and  grant 
me  the  thing  my  soul  desires.’  ” 

“  But  I  can  do  nought  for  thee,” 
answered  Ephraim,  and  his  eyes  filled  with 
tears  of  pity.  “  I  may  not  even  touch  thy 
hand,  for  such,  as  thou  knowest,  is  the  law 
in  Israel.” 

“  My  son,”  the  leper  made  answer,  “  It 
is  but  a  little  thing  that  I  ask.  My  heart 
has  grieved  these  many  months  that  I  can 
lay  no  offerings  upon  the  altar  of  my  God. 
But  last  night  I  had  a  strange  dream.  I 
thought  I  wandered  in  the  wilderness,  and 


59 


THE  LAD  WHO  BROUGHT  NO  OFFERING 


God  spoke  to  me,  saying:  ‘  My  child,  why 
hast  thou  brought  Me  no  offerings  these 
many  days?  Is  thy  heart  so  bitter  by 
reason  of  thy  affliction,  that  thou  grudgest 
Me  the  first-fruits  I  have  bidden  thee  to 
lay  upon  My  altar?’  and  I  answered: 
‘  Nay,  my  Lord,  but  since  I  am  forbidden 
to  enter  the  Temple,  I  cannot  bring  my 
offerings  with  the  others.’  He  answered: 
‘  My  child,  if  thy  heart  craves  to  serve  Me, 
I  will  sanctify  the  spot  where  thou  seest 
My  face.  To-morrow  bring  the  first-fruits 
as  an  offering,  and  they  will  be  acceptable 
unto  Me.’  Then  I  awoke,  and  knew  that 
I  had  heard  the  voice  of  the  Lord.” 

“  Yea,”  answered  Ephraim,  and  he 
trembled  a  little. 

“  Wilt  thou  not  give  me  thy  basket  of 
the  first-fruits,  that  I  may  go  into  the  wil¬ 
derness  and  lay  them  upon  an  altar  I  have 
reared  of  stone  and  of  the  branches  of  the 
trees?  For  the  Lord  will  be  pleased  with 


60 


THE  LAD  WHO  BROUGHT  NO  OFFERING 


my  offering,  even  though  I  must  not  appear 
before  Him  in  His  holy  temple.” 

“  But  I  cannot  go  before  the  altar  with 
empty  hands,”  said  Ephraim.  “  See,  this 
small  basket  is  all  I  have,  and  even  that 
thou  wouldst  take  from  me.” 

“  For  three  years,”  repeated  the  leper, 
“  I  have  not  brought  Him  offerings,  and 
now  thou  wouldst  have  me  leave  my  altar 
barren  and  empty.” 

Hardly  knowing  why  he  acted  thus, 
Ephraim  placed  his  basket  beside  the  road, 
for  he  knew  that  he  must  not  allow  the 
leper  to  approach  him.  “Take  the  offer¬ 
ing  of  my  first-fruits,”  he  said,  “  and  may 
they  be  acceptable  unto  Him.” 

“  The  Lord  bless  thee  all  the  days  of 
thy  life,”  answered  the  leper,  as  he  seized 
the  basket  and  ran  quickly  away. 

Then  Ephraim  continued  on  his  way  to 
Jerusalem,  and  as  he  went,  his  heart  was 
heavy  because  he  must  put  his  father’s 
house  to  shame  by  appearing  before  the 


61 


THE  LAD  WHO  BROUGHT  NO  OFFERING 


altar  with  empty  hands.  His  cheeks 
burned,  and  with  downcast  eyes  he  stood 
before  the  priest  and  stammeringly  began 
to  explain  why  he  had  failed  to  bring  his 
offerings. 

But  the  gentle  old  man  laid  his  hand 
upon  the  boy’s  shoulder,  and  would  not  let 
him  continue.  “  I  do  not  understand  thy 
story,  my  son,”  he  said  gravely,  “  but  I 
know  that  the  Lord  has  been  with  thee.” 

Then  Ephraim  realized  that  he  was 
holding  a  basket  of  luscious  fruits  in  his 
hands,  and  around  the  basket  were  twined 
splendid  lilies  of  the  field  with  the  dew  still 
clinging  to  their  petals.  And  as  Ephraim 
placed  his  offering  upon  the  altar,  he  knew 
that  the  Lord  was  indeed  with  him;  and 
his  heart  sang  for  joy. 


62 


THE  SILENT  HARP 

(A  Story  for  Tish'ah  be-Ab.) 

I 

It  was  nearly  dawn  when  little  Reuben 
awoke,  and  shivered  as  he  lay  beside  his 
mother.  Rising  softly,  for  he  feared  to 
disturb  her,  he  picked  up  his  harp,  and 
walked  away  to  the  little  brook  that 
trickled  by  the  wayside  where  he  bathed 
his  dusty  face  and  lapped  the  refreshing 
water  from  his  cupped  hand. 

For  a  moment  he  stood  gazing  down 
upon  his  sleeping  fellow-captives,  driven 
from  the  land  of  Israel  to  Babylon  as  exiles; 
then  he  turned  his  face  toward  the  ruins 
which  had  been  Jerusalem.  Against  the 
pink-streaked  sky  he  could  see  the  last  wall 
of  the  Temple,  black  and  terrible — the 
Temple  in  which  he  had  once  hoped  to 
play  some  day;  for  even  at  the  age  of  nine 
he  was  a  skilled  harpist.  His  father  and 


5 


63 


THE  SILENT  HARP 


his  brothers  had  been  slaughtered  upon 
the  very  floor  of  that  Temple — that  much 
he  had  learned  from  the  frantic  wailing 
of  his  mother.  But  no  one  would  tell  him 
the  secret  horror  of  their  deaths.  His 
mother,  with  little  Miriam  at  her  breast, 
and  Reuben  clinging  to  her  hand,  had  been 
driven  forth  from  the  black  ruins  which 
they  had  once  called  their  home.  In  their 
flight  Reuben  had  snatched  his  precious 
harp,  the  harp  he  had  often  played  on  sum¬ 
mer  evenings  beneath  the  fig-trees  which 
grew  before  their  house.  As  the  child 
remembered  the  white  doves  that  had  built 
their  nests  in  the  long  leaves  and  have  never 
failed  to  flutter  down  to  his  shoulders  at 
his  call,  he  threw  himself  upon  the  ground, 
weeping  bitterly,  his  wet  cheeks  pressed 
against  the  harp  strings. 

His  sobs  awoke  several  women  and  chil¬ 
dren  about  him,  and  they  joined  in  his 
lamentations.  As  they  wept,  an  old  white- 
haired  man,  leaning  upon  a  staff,  made  his 
G4 


THE  SILENT  HARP 


way  toward  them.  He  drew  little  Reuben 
to  his  side,  and  rested  his  trembling  hand 
upon  the  lad’s  curly  head. 

“  Is  there  no  hope  for  Zion?  ”  cried  the 
exiles.  “Tell  us,  Jeremiah!  Shall  we 
never  return  to  the  land  of  our  birth?  ” 

The  old  man  did  not  answer.  He  only 
stared  with  tearless  eyes  toward  the 
blackened  western  wall  of  the  Temple 
standing  out  against  the  crimson  clouds. 

Little  Reuben  felt  a  strange  desire  to 
comfort  him.  He  tugged  at  the  prophet’s 
robe,  and  showed  him  his  harp. 

“  Some  day,”  said  little  Reuben  proudly, 
“  we  will  come  back  to  Jerusalem,  and  we 
will  build  a  new  Temple,  and  I  will  bring 
my  harp  into  the  Temple  and  play  upon 
it  forever.” 

II 

The  rays  of  the  noonday  sun  beat  upon 
the  bowed  heads  of  the  wretched  captives 
as  they  staggered  along  the  dusty  roads 


65 


THE  SILENT  HARP 


towards  Babylon.  Little  Reuben,  his  harp 
still  pressed  to  his  breast,  limped  wearily 
beside  his  mother.  Sometimes  he  glanced 
timidly  into  her  face;  then  he  became 
afraid.  ....  Could  this  white-faced 
woman,  who  looked  straight  into  the  dis¬ 
tance  and  never  answered  him  when  he 
spoke  to  her,  be  his  own  mother?  Every 
evening,  when  the  Babylonian  guard  gave 
them  bread,  she  would  wait  until  Reuben 
had  devoured  his  scanty  meal;  then  she 
would  push  her  portion  into  his  hands. 
Sometimes  he  broke  off  a  morsel  and 
pressed  it  between  her  lips,  but  she  would 
only  shake  her  head  in  silence. 

One  morning,  when  they  were  ready  to 
start  on  their  day’s  journey,  Reuben  noticed 
that  his  mother’s  arms  were  empty.  She 
no  longer  carried  the  tiny  baby  sister,  who 
for  the  last  few  days  had  been  strangely 
quiet  and  had  neither  fretted  nor  cried. 

“Where  is  Miriam?”  Reuben  asked 
his  mother.  “  Have  the  soldiers  taken  her 
66 


THE  SILENT  HARP 


in  the  night?”  But  his  mother  did  not 
answer.  She  only  rocked  to  and  fro  in 
her  grief,  and  held  her  empty  arms  as 
though  the  baby  still  slept  upon  her  breast. 
And  when  Reuben  lay  down  to  sleep 
beneath  the  stars  that  night,  he  cried  bit¬ 
terly,  and  laid  his  face  against  his  harp  as 
he  wondered  whether  the  soldiers  would 
take  that  away  from  him,  too. 

When  the  sun’s  rays  fell  upon  his  face, 
he  awoke.  He  tried  to  arouse  his  mother, 
but  she  did  not  stir.  Marah,  a  kindly 
woman,  who  had  once  been  their  neighbor, 
drew  him  gently  away,  and,  even  before 
she  spoke,  Reuben  realized  that  he  was 
alone  in  the  world. 

♦  *  ♦  ♦  ♦ 

Several  days  later  Nebuzaradan,  the 
general  of  the  hosts  of  Nebuchadnezzar 
king  of  Babylon,  rode  down  the  ranks  of 
the  broken,  straggling  captives.  He  sat 
upon  his  great  black  horse  like  a  very  king, 


67 


THE  SILENT  HARP 


and  carried  his  head  proudly;  yet  his  face 
beneath  the  gold-wrought  helmet  was  worn 
and  white  and  strangely  terrified,  like  the 
face  of  a  man  who  awakes  from  an  evil 
dream. 

“  Why  does  he  look  so  sad?  ”  Reuben 
asked  Marah  in  wonder.  “  When  he 
returns  to  Nebuchadnezzar  as  a  conqueror, 
the  king  will  load  him  with  wealth  and 
honors.” 

“  Surely,  thou  hast  heard  the  cause 
of  his  heaviness  of  spirit,”  interrupted 
Marah’s  son,  Daniel,  a  stripling  of  sixteen. 
“  Thy  father  and  .  .  .  .” 

“  Hush,  Daniel !  ”  cried  Marah,  draw¬ 
ing  Reuben  to  her.  “  Why  frighten  the 
lad?  Say  no  more  !  ” 

Daniel  was  silent;  but  that  night  Reuben, 
who  lay  beside  him,  crept  closer,  whisper¬ 
ing:  “  Daniel,  tell  me,  I  pray  thee,  how 
my  father  and  thy  father  died.  My 
mother  would  not  tell  me,  and  thy  mother 
thought  I  would  be  frightened;  but  I  am 
G8 


THE  SILENT  HARP 


almost  a  man  now,  so  tell  me  how  they 
met  their  death.” 

“  When  Nebuzaradan,  the  general, 
entered  the  courts  of  the  Temple,”  began 
Daniel,  speaking  softly,  lest  he  awaken 
the  sleepers  about  him,  “  he  saw  a  pool  of 
blood  boiling  and  seething  upon  the  floor. 
He  had  our  priests  brought  before  him  to 
tell  him  the  meaning  of  this  thing;  but  they 
feared  to  tell  him  the  truth  of  the  matter, 
and  answered:  ‘  It  is  only  the  blood  of  the 
sacrifices,  lambs  and  oxen  we  have  slaugh¬ 
tered  upon  the  altar  of  the  Lord.’  But  the 
pool  of  blood  continued  to  seethe,  and 
Nebuzaradan  then  cried:  ‘Ye  are  lying, 
priests !  Speak  truly,  or  I  will  tear  the 
flesh  from  your  bodies !  ’  And  the  priests 
confessed  that  it  was  the  blood  of  the 
prophet  Zechariah  whom  the  people  of 
Jerusalem  had  slain  in  that  very  place  for 
declaring  that  the  Temple  would  be 
destroyed.  ‘  Then  I  will  cause  this  blood 
which  cries  for  vengeance  to  be  satisfied,’ 


69 


THE  SILENT  HARP 


declared  Nebuzaradan,  and  he  ordered  the 
scholars,  among  them  thy  father  and  mine, 

to  be  slain  in  that  place . But  the 

blood  upon  the  floor  would  not  rest.  Many 
maidens  and  youths  were  also  slain — 
among  them  thy  brothers — even  the  young 
priests  were  not  spared;  but  still  the  blood 
of  Zechariah  continued  to  boil  and  seethe 
upon  the  Temple  floor.  But  at  last 
Nebuzaradan  cried  out:  ‘Zechariah! 
Zechariah!  See  how  I  have  slaughtered 
the  most  precious  souls  in  all  Israel.  Dost 
thou  demand  still  more  destruction? 
Must  I  slay  a  whole  people?’  Then  the 
blood  became  quiet;  but  Nebuzaradan 
trembled  where  he  stood  and  said:  ‘If 
the  death  of  this  one  man  was  counted 
such  a  sin  in  the  eyes  of  the  God  of  Israel, 
how  can  I,  the  slayer  of  hundreds,  ever 
hope  for  peace?  ’  And  since  that  day  no 
man  has  seen  him  smile,  and  I  have  heard 
it  whispered  that,  when  he  returns  to  Baby¬ 
lon,  he  will  lay  his  sword  at  the  feet  of 


70 


THE  SILENT  HARP 


Nebuchadnezzar,  his  king,  and  seek  to 
learn  the  faith  of  our  people,  that  he  may 
become  one  of  us  and  be  at  peace.” 

“  I  am  glad  he  is  tormented  for  his 
cruelty,”  muttered  Reuben.  “  To-day  he 
seemed  like  another  king  Saul,  tortured  by 
an  evil  spirit.” 

“  Wouldst  thou,  like  another  David, 
drive  away  his  moodiness  with  thy  harp?  ” 
asked  Daniel,  half  in  mockery. 

“  Nay,”  returned  the  younger  lad 
fiercely.  “  How  could  I  bring  myself  to 
restore  peace  to  the  destroyer  of  our 
nation  ?  ” 

III 

In  the  banquet  hall  of  Nebuchadnezzar 
king  of  Babylon  there  rose  shouts  of  bois¬ 
terous  laughter,  mingling  with  the  softer 
voices  of  slave  girls,  who  sang  as  they 
poured  out  the  wine.  At  the  king’s  right 
hand  sat  Nebuzaradan,  his  face  pale  and 
gloomy  beneath  the  jewelled  circlet  which 
his  royal  master  had  placed  about  his 
71 


THE  SILENT  HARP 


brows.  But  the  eyes  of  Nebuchadnezzar 
the  king  glowed  with  pride,  as  he  looked 
upon  the  captives  from  Jerusalem,  pass¬ 
ing  before  him  with  gifts  of  tribute  in  their 
hands,  even  the  gold  and  silver  vessels  from 
their  ravaged  Temple.  Past  the  royal  seat 
they  came,  the  elders  and  the  young  men, 
women  with  babes  at  their  breast,  priests 
and  little  children.  And  one  little  lad, 
weary  and  foot-sore,  staggered  and  fell 
exhausted  before  the  king’s  feet.  One  of 
the  huge  black  slaves,  who  stood  behind 
the  king,  raised  little  Reuben  roughly,  and 
he  would  have  passed  on,  had  not  the  king 
detained  him  with  a  gesture. 

“  What  doth  the  lad  carry?  ”  he  asked 
curiously,  his  eyes  falling  upon  the  harp 
wrhose  strings  the  child  had  covered  with 
long  green  leaves  to  keep  them  from  break¬ 
ing  with  the  heat. 

“  A  harp,  my  lord  the  king,”  answered 
Nebuzaradan.  “  There  are  skilled  harp 
players  among  the  Hebrews.” 


72 


THE  SILENT  HARP 


“  And  thou  hast  brought  this  petty  thing 
for  tribute?”  asked  Nebuchadnezzar  the 
king,  his  small  eyes  twinkling  with  amuse¬ 
ment.  He  laughed  as  the  little  exile  hugged 
the  harp  closer  to  his  breast.  “  It  must  be 
a  rare  instrument,  since  thou  hast  treasured 
it,  and  sought  to  bring  it  safely  from  Jeru¬ 
salem  even  unto  Babylon!  ” 

“  It  was  my  father’s  harp,”  answered 
Reuben,  so  low  that  the  king  could  hardly 
catch  his  words. 

“  And  he  taught  thee  to  play?  ”  asked 
the  king.  Reuben  nodded.  “It  is  well!” 
said  Nebuchadnezzar,  and  signed  to  his 
guards  to  stay  the  line  of  captives.  “  Thou 
art  a  comely  boy — if  thou  dost  play 
sweetly,  thou  shalt  have  a  place  among  our 
own  musicians.  Play  for  us  now,  and  sing 
one  of  the  songs  of  Zion.” 

Reuben’s  fingers  tightened  about  his 
beloved  harp,  while  his  frightened  eyes 
glanced  from  the  line  of  weary  captives  to 
the  cold,  unhappy  face  of  the  butcher  of 


73 


THE  SILENT  HARP 


Babylon,  who  sat  at  the  king’s  right  hand. 
He  grew  very  white,  and  trembled  in  every 
limb  as  he  slowly  shook  his  head. 

“  Will  they  kill  me?  ”  he  wondered  as 
he  saw  the  king’s  countenance  darken  with 
wrath.  He  spoke,  and  his  voice  sounded 
in  his  ears  like  the  voice  of  another  speaker: 
“  I  cannot  play  my  harp  in  a  foreign  land, 
nor  will  I  sing  the  songs  of  Zion  before 
the  enemies  of  my  people.” 

A  cry,  half  of  joy,  half  of  pity,  burst 
from  the  captives.  But  no  one  heeded 
them,  for  those  of  the  court,  dumb  with 
surprise,  stared  at  the  mighty  king  of  Baby¬ 
lon,  defied  by  a  little  child.  There  was  a 
long  silence;  then  Nebuchadnezzar  laughed 
softly,  as  he  gazed  upon  Reuben  standing 
before  him  with  fumbling  hands  and  bowed 
head.  He  turned  to  one  of  his  slaves,  and 
gave  a  low,  sharp  command, 

“  Surely,  they  will  kill  me,”  thought  Reu¬ 
ben,  and  he  closed  his  eyes  and  waited  in 
the  dreadful  silence. 


74 


THE  SILENT  HARP 


“  Now  take  thy  harp  and  sing  one  of 
the  songs  of  Zion,”  commanded  Nebuchad¬ 
nezzar  once  more,  and  looking  up,  Reuben 
saw  that  the  black  slave  had  returned.  In 
spite  of  himself,  the  boy  cringed,  as  his 
frightened  eyes  fell  upon  the  heavy  whip 
the  slave  carried.  He  would  never  be 
strong  enough  to  withstand  their  torments, 
for  he  was  only  a  little  lad  ....  and 
weak  ....  and  very,  very  tired. 

He  cowered  back  against  the  banquet 
table,  and,  as  he  clung  to  it  for  support, 
his  hand  touched  a  long  knife.  As  he  felt 
the  cold  steel  beneath  his  fingers,  a  thought 
flashed  through  his  tired  brain.  If — if  he 
dared  to  escape  in  this  dreadful  way,  even 
a  hundred  lashes  could  never  force  him  to 
string  his  harp  again. 

He  caught  up  the  knife  in  one  hand,  and 
stretched  the  other  beneath  it.  A  moment 
later  the  shining  blade  descended,  and  the 
child  lurched  forward,  crying  out  in  agony, 
his  fingers  hacked  and  bleeding. 


THE  SILENT  HARP 


After  his  long  terror,  the  frightful  pain 
was  too  much  to  be  borne,  and  he  fell  faint¬ 
ing  to  the  ground.  Even  as  the  darkness 
closed  over  him,  he  heard  his  harp  strike 
the  marble  pavement;  and,  as  the  cords 
snapped,  Reuben’s  heart  broke  within  him, 
and  he  longed  for  death. 

“  A  strange  and  stubborn  people — even 
their  little  children  defy  me !  ”  mused 
Nebuchadnezzar.  He  turned  to  Nebu- 
zaradan:  “  But  thou  didst  break  them,  my 
general!  More  praise  to  thee  that  thou 
didst  break  them  !  ” 

In  answer  to  the  king’s  words,  the  con¬ 
queror  of  Jerusalem  raised  his  jewelled 
arm  in  salute — but  his  body  trembled,  and 
his  smiling  lips  were  white. 


76 


THE  SPRIG  OF  MYRTLE 

(A  Story  for  Purim.) 


A  group  of  girls  danced  and  played 
merrily  before  the  house  of  Mordecai  the 
Jew.  Their  happy  laughter  came  to  him 
as  he  sat  before  his  door  watching  their 
sport,  his  grave  eyes  growing  strangely 
wistful  as  they  followed  the  slight  figure 
of  his  ward,  Hadassah,  whose  gay,  teasing 
laughter  rang  out  above  the  rest.  Just 
seventeen  was  Hadassah,  flower-faced  and 
light  of  foot,  her  long  dark  hair  bound  with 
a  wreath  of  the  fragrant  myrtle  whose 
name  she  bore.  And  Mordecai,  in  whose 
house  she  had  grown  from  infancy,  looked 
upon  her  as  his  own  child,  and  grew 
unhappy  at  the  thought  of  losing  her 
forever. 

Even  as  the  maidens  danced  and 
frolicked,  a  youth,  dressed  in  the  blue  and 
white  liveries  of  the  king’s  household, 


77 


THE  SPRIG  OF  MYRTLE 


entered  the  court-yard  before  Mordecai’s 
house.  He  carried  a  scroll  bound  with  the 
royal  colors  from  which  dangled  the  seal 
of  the  king’s  authority.  Mordecai’s  heart 
sank  as  the  youth  approached.  He  knew 
only  too  well  that  Vashti,  the  beautiful  wife 
of  King  Ahasuerus,  had  been  divorced  and 
that  now  the  king  sought  among  the 
maidens  of  Persia  for  her  successor. 

“  I  come  from  the  king,”  began  the 
stranger,  touching  the  seal  of  his  proclama¬ 
tion  as  Mordecai  saluted  him  respectfully. 

“  I  understand,”  answered  the  Jew. 
“  Thou  wilt  take  my  ward,  Hadassah 
away?  ” 

“  Within  two  hours  let  her  be  ready  to 
depart  for  the  king’s  palace.  And  those 
with  her?  ” 

“  The  daughters  of  our  neighbors.” 

“  I  shall  go  to  their  households  that  they 
may  be  summoned  likewise.  Take  care 
that  the  maid  Hadassah  is  ready  to  journey 
with  them.  And  remember,  from  this  day 


78 


THE  SPRIG  OF  MYRTLE 


forth,  thou  hast  no  child,  for  she  is  of  the 
king’s  household.” 

“  I  understand,”  repeated  Mordecai,  his 
eyes  dark  with  pain.  “  Hadassah,”  he 
called,  and  smiled  sadly  to  see  how  the  girl 
hurried  to  him,  ever  obedient  to  his  sum¬ 
mons.  “  Come  into  the  house,  beloved,  for 
I  would  speak  with  thee.”  And  she  fol¬ 
lowed  him  across  the  door-sill. 

Calling  the  old  tire-woman  who  had  been 
Hadassah’s  nurse,  Mordecai  bade  her 
bring  fresh  robes  for  the  girl  and  prepare 
her  for  her  journey.  “  The  king’s  com¬ 
mand,”  he  murmured  sorrowfully  as  he 
sat  apart,  his  chin  resting  upon  his  hand. 
“  My  Hadassah,  my  myrtle  flower,  torn 
from  her  native  soil  to  wither  in  the  court¬ 
yards  of  his  golden  house.” 

Presently  Hadassah  came  to  him,  even 
fairer  than  before  in  her  festive  robes  of 
pale  green,  a  fresh  wreath  of  her  name 
flower  about  her  hair.  The  old  nurse 
gazed  upon  her  with  fond  pride.  “  She 


6 


79 


THE  SPRIG  OF  MYRTLE 


will  be  the  loveliest  maiden  among  all  those 
who  stand  before  the  king,”  she  murmured, 
as  she  smoothed  the  maiden’s  glossy  curls. 
“  But  she  is  dressed  far  too  simply  for  a 
daughter  of  the  house  of  Benjamin.  I  pray 
thee,  master,  give  me  the  casket  of  jewels 
her  mother  wore  upon  her  bridal  day,  the 
topaz  for  her  arms  and  neck,  and  the 
golden  anklets  and  girdle.” 

Hadassah’s  eyes  sparkled  with  delight; 
but  Mordecai  shook  his  head.  “  Nay,  she 
is  fairer  thus;  she  has  never  worn  jewels, 
nor  must  she  wear  them  to-day.”  Then, 
as  the  old  servant  withdrew  frowning, 
carrying  the  discarded  robes  with  her,  he 
drew  the  young  girl  to  his  side  and  kissed 
her.  “  Do  not  fret,  little  one,”  he  com¬ 
forted.  “  And  do  not  blame  me  if  I  do 
not  care  to  deck  thee,  a  true  Jewish  daugh¬ 
ter,  in  the  gauds  of  a  Persian  princess.  For 
I  would  have  thee  appear  among  the 
beauties  of  the  king’s  court  like  a  modest 
flower  that  by  thy  very  simplicity  and 


80 


THE  SPRIG  OF  MYRTLE 


sweetness  thou  mayest  win  his  royal 
favor.” 

Hadassah  stared  at  her  cousin  with 
unbelieving  eyes.  “  But,  surely,  thou  dost 
not  wish  me  to  remain  in  the  king’s  palace,” 
she  protested.  “  Thou  wouldst  not  have 
him  select  me  for  his  bride  ?  ” 

Mordecai  answered  her  slowly:  “  Ha¬ 
dassah — little  one,  how  can  I  tell  thee?  It 
almost  breaks  my  heart  to  give  thee  up,  to 
send  thee  among  strangers.  Yet  I  am  glad, 
very  glad,  to  see  thee  go.  For  who  knows, 
perhaps,  thou  mayest  find  favor  in  the 
king’s  eyes  and  a  day  may  come  when  thine 
innocence  and  beauty  will  win  great  com¬ 
fort  for  our  exiled  people.  We  are  stran¬ 
gers  here  in  Persia,  little  daughter,  and  a 
sword  is  ever  above  our  heads.  But  who 
knows  but  that  thou  mayest  become  a  star 
of  hope  to  our  brethren  in  time  of  need — 
yea,  Esther,  which  in  their  tongue  signi¬ 
fies  a  star  of  good  fortune,  shall  be  thy 
name,”  he  murmured  more  to  himself  than 


81 


THE  SPRIG  OF  MYRTLE 


to  the  girl  who  stared  at  him  with 
frightened,  puzzled  eyes.  Then,  catching 
the  look  of  terror  on  her  face,  he  drew 
her  to  him,  and  kissed  her  tenderly.  “  Did 
I  frighten  thee?  Be  not  afraid,  sweet  one, 
for  the  God  of  our  fathers  will  watch  over 
thee  wherever  thou  goest.  And  my 
prayers  must  follow  thee  past  the  pillars 
of  the  king’s  golden  house.”  He  held  her 
at  arm’s  length,  and  spoke  even  more 
earnestly:  “  I  lay  only  one  command  upon 
thee — heed  it  well.  Until  I  bid  thee 
speak,  tell  no  one  of  thy  kindred  and  thy 
race.  Promise  me,  Hadassah,  that  thou 
wilt  obey  me  in  this!  ” 

She  raised  troubled  eyes  to  his  face. 
“  Thou  hast  always  taught  me  to  be  proud 
that  I  am  the  daughter  of  our  people,”  she 
began  doubtfully. 

“  True  !  But  now  none  must  know  that 
thou  art  of  Jewish  blood.  Trust  me  in  this, 
my  little  one,  and  obey  me,  even  as  I  hope 
to  see  thee  obey  me  in  greater  things, 


82 


THE  SPRIG  OF  MYRTLE 


shouldst  thou  ever  be  called  upon  to  serve 
our  people.” 

“  I  will  always  obey  thee,”  promised  the 
girl;  “  no  matter  how  far  away  I  dwell,  no 
matter  how  rich  and  honored  I  may 
become — even  if  I  am  crowned  queen  of 
Persia.” 

Before  the  palace  of  the  king  at  Shushan 
several  boys  of  the  royal  household  played 
at  ball.  A  youth  taller  than  the  rest,  and 
carrying  himself  with  a  certain  grave  dig¬ 
nity,  came  from  the  palace,  and  stood  upon 
the  shining  marble  steps  to  watch  them. 
His  eyes  brightened,  and,  throwing  aside 
his  mantle  heavily  embroidered  with  gold, 
he  joined  the  game,  laughing  as  merrily  as 
the  rest  when  his  golden  ball  sped  across 
the  rose-bushes  into  the  depths  of  a  lily- 
bordered  pool.  A  roguish,  blue-eyed  lad 
had  already  started  to  strip  off  his  light 
garment,  that  he  might  dive  after  it,  when 
he  who  had  flung  the  ball  shook  his  head. 


THE  SPRIG  OF  MYRTLE 


“  Nay,  Myrion,”  he  cried.  “  On  such 
a  glorious  day  why  seek  for  gold  baubles? 
Within,”  his  hand  indicated  the  palace, 
“  there  is  too  much  gold  and  heavy  incense 
and  bowing  of  black  slaves.  Let  us  spend 
the  day  in  the  forest  with  our  bows  and 
arrows.”  Impatiently  he  waved  aside  the 
slave  who  held  his  discarded  mantle.  “  I 
will  go  like  the  others,”  he  declared  will¬ 
fully,  “  and  run  and  leap  unhampered  by 
my  foolish  robes.  Bring  me  my  bow  and 
arrows — I  am  eager  to  be  off.” 

His  companions  followed  him  gladly 
through  the  green,  cool  ways  of  the  forest. 
It  was  spring-time;  they  were  young  and 
free  from  care,  and  the  songs  of  the  birds 
on  every  bough  seemed  to  echo  the  joy  in 
their  youthful  hearts.  The  tall  youth 
laughed  and  jested  with  the  others,  but  soon 
his  brow  darkened  petulantly,  for  no  game 
had  appeared  to  be  brought  down  and 
stowed  in  the  bags  the  dark-skinned  atten¬ 
dants  carried  upon  their  shoulders.  But  at 


84 


THE  SPRIG  OF  MYRTLE 


last,  as  they  came  to  a  clearing  in  the 
woods,  Ittar,  a  keen-faced,  slight  lad,  cried 
excitedly:  “A  bird — see,  it  is  rising — 
toward  the  east !  ” 

The  others  waited  as  the  tall  youth  fitted 
his  arrow  to  his  bow,  took  a  steady  aim, 
and  let  it  speed  upward  toward  the  flutter¬ 
ing  wings  already  fading  against  the  shin¬ 
ing  blue  of  the  morning  sky.  The  boys 
burst  into  a  shout  of  triumph  as  the  tiny 
mass  of  feathers  poised  a  moment  above 
them,  then  dropped  down,  the  arrow  which 
had  struck  its  wing  falling  before  it.  One 
of  the  attendants  darted  forward  eagerly 
to  secure  the  prize;  but  the  bird  seemed  to 
have  fallen  out  of  sight  into  a  clump  of 
bushes,  and  he  returned  empty-handed. 

The  lad  whose  arrow  had  brought  the 
victim  to  earth  flushed  with  disappointment 
and  anger.  He  half  raised  his  hand  as 
though  to  strike  the  slave  who  cringed 
before  him.  “  Must  I  return  with  empty 


85 


THE  SPRIG  OF  MYRTLE 


bags  because  of  thy  blindness?”  he  cried 
furiously. 

Even  as  he  spoke,  there  appeared  from 
the  thicket  the  royal  messenger,  followed 
by  a  group  of  maidens  in  festal  robes,  with 
jewels  in  their  flowing  hair.  One  walked 
apart  from  her  companions,  a  girl  in  simple 
garments,  crowned  with  myrtle,  her  face 
bent  tenderly  over  a  mass  of  feathers  she 
held  gathered  to  her  breast.  The  messen¬ 
ger  started  forward,  was  about  to  sink  to 
the  ground  as  though  a  great  personage 
had  stood  before  him,  but  the  tall  youth 
restrained  him  with  a  swift  gesture.  He 
walked  quickly  to  the  flower-crowned  girl, 
and  held  out  his  hand. 

“  The  dove  thou  carriest  is  mine,”  he 
told  her.  “  My  arrow  just  brought  it  to 
earth.  Give  it  to  me.” 

She  raised  her  eyes,  serious  but  unabashed 
as  a  little  child.  “  I  have  just  picked  it 
up  from  the  ground  where  it  lay  wounded 
and  suffering.  See,  thou  hast  broken  its 


86 


THE  SPRIG  OF  MYRTLE 


poor  wing.  But,  perhaps,  with  tender  care 
it  will  heal  again.  May  I  not  take  it  to 
keep  me  company  in  my  loneliness  in  the 
king’s  palace?  ” 

The  other  smiled.  “  Surely,  maiden, 
thou  wilt  not  be  lonely  in  the  king’s  golden 
house,  with  its  couches  of  ivory  and  silver 
and  its  crystal  goblets  set  with  jewels  like 
altar-fires.” 

“  I  will  miss  the  roses  and  the  myrtles 
of  my  garden,”  she  answered,  “  and  my 
doves  which  came  to  eat  from  my  hand  in 
the  morning  and  at  night.  Let  me,  I  pray 
thee,  keep  this  dove  to  remind  me  of  my 
home.” 

“  But  since  my  arrow  brought  it  low,  I 
would  have  some  small  trophy  of  my 
triumph.  Give  me,  maiden,  a  spray  of  the 
sweet-smelling  myrtle  that  binds  thy  hair.” 

Smiling  shyly,  the  girl  broke  a  spray  of 
her  name  flower  from  the  wreath  about 
her  head,  and  placed  it  in  his  outstretched 
hand.  She  was  about  to  pass  him  and  join 


87 


THE  SPRIG  OF  MYRTLE 


the  others,  when  he  caught  her  robe. 
“Thy  name,  maiden?”  he  demanded. 

“  In  the  tongue  of  the  Hebrews  (she  was 
about  to  say:  “  my  people,”  but  restrained 
herself  in  time)  my  name  is  Hadassah,  or 
myrtle.  But  the  Persians  will  call  me 
Esther,  or  a  star  of  good  fortune.” 

“  Flower  and  star,”  murmured  the  youth 
as  she  left  him,  “  modest  sweetness  and 
good  fortune !  Have  I  found  them  at  last 
to  bring  me  trust  and  comfort?”  With 
an  imperious  gesture,  he  called  the  messen¬ 
ger  to  his  side.  “  Thou  hast  not  seen  me 
to-day,”  he  commanded  sharply.  “  And 
when  thou  reachest  the  palace,  speak  at 
once  to  Hegai,  telling  him  that  the  maiden 
Esther  with  whom  I  have  just  spoken  is 
to  be  treated  as  royally  as  a  daughter  of 
the  king’s  household.”  The  messenger 
bowed  and  returned  to  the  girls  who  now 
stood  about  Hadassah,  twittering  with 
excitement  as  they  sought  to  learn  of  her 
conversation  with  the  stranger. 


88 


THE  SPRIG  OF  MYRTLE 


She  only  shook  her  head,  with  her  faint, 
grave  smile.  “  He  spoke  graciously  to  me 
and  permitted  me  to  keep  the  dove,”  was 
all  she  said  as  she  stroked  the  soft  feathers 
huddled  against  her  breast.  But  on  the 
way  to  the  king’s  house  she  smiled  mysteri¬ 
ously  more  than  once  as  though  a  beautiful 
secret  had  been  whispered  to  her  in  the 
forest  under  the  shining  morning  sky. 

And  now  it  seemed  to  Hadassah,  whom 
her  Persian  companions  in  the  women’s 
apartments  of  the  king’s  palace  called 
Esther,  as  though  cool  forests  and  shining- 
skies  were  things  far  off,  like  half-forgotten 
dreams.  In  the  king’s  house  it  was  hard 
to  breathe  freely;  she  seemed  to  droop 
beneath  a  stifling  heat,  though  cool  foun¬ 
tains  played  in  the  marble  court-yards  and 
dusky-skinned  slaves  waved  great  fans  of 
peacock  feathers  above  her  as  she  slept. 
Sometimes,  as  she  looked  at  her  dove  in 
the  gilded  wicker  cage  which  Hegai,  the 
keeper  of  the  women’s  apartments,  had 


89 


THE  SPRIG  OF  MYRTLE 


brought  her,  she  thought  how  they  were 
indeed  sisters  in  misfortune,  lonely  in  a 
beautiful  prison-house,  far  away  from 
home  and  kindred. 

“  But  do  not  grieve,  dear  dove,”  she 
would  murmur,  “  for  it  is  only  for  a  little 
while.  We  are  prisoners  now;  but  some 
day,  when  the  new  queen  is  chosen,  I  will 
go  back  to  dear  Mordecai — and  on  that 
day  I  will  set  thee  free.  It  will  be  good 
to  go  back  to  my  garden  with  its  roses  and 
its  myrtles,”  she  said  with  a  far-away  look 
in  her  eyes;  yet  she  sighed  a  little,  too,  for 
she  felt  certain  that  the  youth  she  had  met 
in  the  forest  was  of  the  court,  and  she  knew 
that  if  she  left  the  king’s  house  she  might 
never  look  upon  the  stranger’s  face  again. 

There  came  a  day  when  from  early 
morning  until  the  time  of  torches  the 
women’s  apartments  of  the  king’s  golden 
house  resounded  with  excited  murmurs,  as 
the  fairest  maidens,  gathered  from  every 
corner  of  the  kingdom,  made  themselves 
SO 


THE  SPRIG  OF  MYRTLE 


ready  to  appear  before  the  king  that  he 
might  choose  his  royal  bride.  “  Who  will 
be  chosen?  ”  they  asked  themselves,  as  they 
splashed  luxuriously  in  the  marble  baths  or 
anointed  themselves  with  fragrant  oils 
before  donning  their  festive  robes  and 
anklets  and  diadems.  A  few  of  the 
favorites  of  Hegai,  Esther  among  them, 
were  offered  richer  ornaments  than  their 
mates.  But  the  ward  of  Mordecai  would 
have  none  of  the  milky  pearls  and  strings 
of  rubies  that  the  keeper  of  the  women’s 
apartments  tried  to  press  upon  her. 

“  I  will  wear  no  jewels,”  she  declared 
firmly,  “  and  no  other  robe  than  that  in 
which  I  left  my  guardian’s  house.”  So 
Hegai,  wondering  and  protesting,  yielded 
to  her  whim,  never  dreaming  that  the  girl 
hoped  to  escape  unnoticed  in  her  modest 
attire  that  she  might  be  permitted  to  leave 
the  bleak  magnificence  of  the  king’s  golden 
house. 


91 


THE  SPRIG  OF  MYRTLE 


At  last  the  maidens  passed  in  slow  pro¬ 
cession  down  the  lane  of  negro  slaves  bear¬ 
ing  flaming  torches,  down  through  the 
gardens  about  the  women’s  pavilions  and 
into  the  great  hall,  where  King  Ahasuerus 
of  Persia  and  his  glittering  court  awaited 
them.  One  by  one  they  moved  slowly 
before  him,  every  girl  as  beautiful  as  a 
flower;  stately,  dark  maidens,  like  queen 
roses  in  their  pride,  lily-white  virgins  with 
hair  gleaming  like  pale  gold  in  the  torch¬ 
light.  The  great  hall  was  silent  with 
expectancy;  no  one  stirred  or  even  seemed 
to  breathe. 

Ahasuerus,  in  his  robes  of  royal  blue  and 
white,  sat  motionless  as  an  ivory  statue,  his 
keen  eyes  eagerly  scanning  the  faces  of  the 
girls  who  passed  before  him,  pausing  only 
long  enough  to  prostrate  themselves  at  his 
feet  until  he  waved  his  command  to  follow 
the  others.  Suddenly  he  leaped  forward, 
his  face  aglow,  his  hand  extended  to  the 
girl  who  bent  before  him,  a  slender,  dark 


92 


THE  SPRIG  OF  MYRTLE 


girl  in  simple  robes,  her  long  hair  bound 
with  a  wreath  of  myrtle  flowers. 

Ahasuerus  descended  from  the  dais  on 
which  he  sat,  and  raised  the  girl  to  her  feet; 
their  eyes  met,  and  those  who  stood  near 
saw  her  grow  pale,  then  flush  rosily  beneath 
the  king’s  gaze. 

“  Thou,”  was  all  she  could  stammer, 
“  thou  art  the  king?  ” 

From  his  girdle  Ahasuerus  drew  a  sprig 
of  withered  myrtle,  and  placed  it  in  her 
hand. 

“  I  am  glad  thou  didst  wear  the  myrtle 
wreath  to-night,  beloved,”  he  told  her,  “for 
to-morrow  thou  must  lay  it  aside  when  I 
place  the  crown  of  Persia  upon  thy  head 

and  proclaim  thee  my  wife  and  queen.” 

*  *  *  *  * 

Amid  the  shrubs  and  flowering  bushes, 
which  surrounded  the  queen’s  pavilion, 
Mordecai  the  Jew  crouched  and  waited 
through  the  long  night.  The  decree  had 
gone  forth  dooming  every  Jew  in  Persia 


93 


THE  SPRIG  OF  MYRTLE 


to  destruction.  Mordecai  with  his  breth¬ 
ren  had  prayed  and  fasted;  now  he  waited 
with  clasped  hands  and  trembling  lips,  his 
eyes  fixed  upon  the  lamp  burning  in  the 
queen’s  tower  window. 

For  the  lamp  was  to  be  the  signal  to 
Mordecai  that  he  might  tell  his  brethren, 
the  queen’s  own  people,  whether  they  were 
to  be  spared,  or  doomed  to  fall  beneath 
Haman’s  hatred.  Haman,  favorite  of  the 
king,  had  won  his  permission  to  slay  the 
people  of  Mordecai  whom  he  hated  with 
the  bitterness  of  death.  It  was  then  that 
Mordecai  sought  Esther  for  the  first  time 
since  her  crowning,  bidding  her  plead  with 
her  husband,  the  king,  that  her  people  be 
spared  from  destruction.  Esther  had  hesi¬ 
tated;  to  appear  before  the  king  unsum¬ 
moned  meant  certain  death,  unless  the 
monarch’s  heart  should  be  moved  by  pity 
and  his  extended  sceptre  proclaim  pardon 
for  the  intruder.  And  for  many  days 
Ahasuerus  had  not  summoned  his  queen  to 


94 


THE  SPRIG  OF  MYRTLE 


appear  before  him.  But  Mordecai’s  words 
moved  Esther  to  dare  all  for  her  people. 

“  If  I  perish,  I  perish,”  she  told  him, 
seeking  to  obey  her  guardian  unfalteringly 
as  in  the  old  days  when  she  had  played 
with  her  companions  before  his  humble 
home,  far  away  from  the  golden  glories  of 
the  king’s  palace. 

And  so,  splendid  in  her  royal  robes  and 
jewels,  wearing  not  the  crown  of  Persia 
upon  her  head  but  only  a  wreath  of  myrtle 
flowers,  Esther  appeared  before  her  lord. 
Ele  pardoned  her  presumption,  and  ex¬ 
tended  his  sceptre  of  mercy  to  the  tremb¬ 
ling  girl.  Eler  petition  was  upon  her  lips; 
she  longed  to  plead  with  him  to  spare  her 
people,  the  people  of  Mordecai  she  had 
not  dared  before  to  claim  as  her  kindred. 
But,  fearful  and  confused,  struggling  like 
a  dove  in  the  fowler’s  net,  she  had  played 
for  time,  pleading  that  her  husband  and 
Haman  should  grace  a  banquet  she  would 
prepare  for  them  in  her  private  apartments. 


7 


95 


THE  SPRIG  OF  MYRTLE 


“  And  there  will  I  plead  our  cause  before 
the  king,”  she  had  assured  Mordecai.  “  I 
will  declare  myself  a  Jewess,  and  he  must 
spare  our  people  for  my  sake.”  Her  eyes 
turned  to  the  white  dove  in  its  gilded  cage 
upon  her  window  ledge.  “  Poor  prisoner,” 
she  murmured,  “  I  have  not  given  it  its 
freedom,  though  I  am  free  now,  since  the 
king’s  love  has  changed  the  palace  from  a 
prison  to  a  house  of  gladness.”  She  turned 
back  to  Mordecai.  “  Wait  below  in  the 
gardens  tc-night.  Hegai  is  still  my  friend, 
and  will  admit  thee.  I  will  send  thee  a 
sign  that  thou  mayest  know  whether  we  of 
Israel  are  to  live  or  die.  If  I  quench  the 
light  in  the  golden  lamp  swinging  in  my 
casement,  thou  wilt  know  that  the  light  of 
life  is  quenched  for  us  and  for  our  brethren. 
Then  return  to  our  people,  and  prepare 
them  for  death,  and  count  me  also  among 
the  dead.  But  if  the  king  is  gracious  to 
me  and  vows  to  spare  our  nation,  I  will  free 
my  dove  as  a  token  of  deliverance.”  She 


96 


THE  SPRIG  OF  MYRTLE 


clasped  her  hands  upon  her  breast,  and 
stood  before  Mordecai  very  quiet  and  of 
good  courage.  “  I  will  plead  for  our  people 
to-night,”  she  promised.  “  The  God  of 
our  fathers  grant  that  I  prove  a  star  of 
deliverance  to  them  in  their  dire  need.” 

And  even  now  she  must  be  with  the  king, 
for  Mordecai  had  seen  the  royal  party 
enter  the  queen’s  pavilion  shortly  after  sun¬ 
set.  Now  the  moon  had  risen,  silvering 
the  shrubs  and  fountains.  A  peaceful  and 
a  lovely  night,  yet  Mordecai’s  soul  was 
sick  with  horror.  If  she  should  fail — he 
saw  the  Jews  of  Persia  delivered  to  the 
sword :  men,  women,  even  little  children, 
crushed  beneath  the  cruelty  of  Hainan’s 
.vengeance.  And  Hadassah — his  Hadas- 
sah — if  she  declared  herself  a  Jewess,  she, 
too,  would  be  among  the  slain.  Even  now 
the  king’s  guards  might  be  leading 
her  from  his  presence  to  die  an  ignoble 
death . 


97 


THE  SPRIG  OF  MYRTLE 


Suddenly  the  light  in  Esther’s  tower  win¬ 
dow  darkened.  Mordecai  swayed  where 
he  stood,  his  hands  clutching  at  his  throat. 
Then  he  understood.  A  woman  was  lean¬ 
ing  from  the  window,  her  slight  figure 
blotting  out  the  light.  In  the  moon’s  rays 
he  saw  her  press  a  white  object  to  her  lips, 
kissing  her  dove  before  she  set  it  free. 
Stretching  its  wings,  the  happy  creature 
flew  above  the  flowers  back  to  the  forest, 
far  away  from  the  king’s  golden  house. 
In  the  queen’s  pavilion  stern-faced  guards 
led  Haman  forth  to  die,  and  Ahasuerus 
granted  life  to  Esther  and  her  kindred. 
Beneath  the  window  among  the  silvered 
shrubs  and  fountains,  Mordecai  bent  before 
the  God  of  his  fathers  in  grateful  prayer. 
And  as  he  prayed  he  wept. 


98 


FRIENDS 

(A  Story  for  Hanukkah.) 


When  young  Beriah  set  out  upon  his 
journey  to  Antioch  to  join  his  father,  lately 
appointed  an  officer  in  the  household  of 
Antiochus  of  Syria,  Judas  walked  with  him 
to  the  turn  in  the  road,  loath  to  have 
Beriah  depart,  for  they  were  dear  friends 
and  this  was  to  be  their  first  parting. 

“  Would  that  thou  wert  coming  with  me 
to  Antioch,”  mourned  Beriah.  “  Thou 
wilt  be  as  one  buried  alive  in  little  Modin, 
while  in  the  splendid  court  of  Antiochus — ” 

“  He  who  would  teach  pious  Jews  to 
enjoy  the  shameful  feasts  and  games  of 
the  heathen  !  ”  interrupted  Judas.  “  Better 
that  thou  shouldst  stay  in  Modin  than  fol¬ 
low  the  example  of  our  brethren  of  Anti¬ 
och,  who  ape  the  manners  and  dress  of  the 
Greek  and  the  language  of  the  Gentile.” 


FRIENDS 


Beriah  shrugged  impatiently.  “  Why 
should  we  not  wear  the  Greek  dress  and 
enjoy  the  Greek  games?  ”  he  asked  lightly. 

“If  we  follow  the  Greeks  in  lesser 
things,”  Judas  answered,  “  our  people  will 
soon  forget  to  worship  the  God  of  our 
fathers.  Hast  thou  not  heard  that  this 
Antiochus  seeks  to  introduce  the  worship 
of  his  heathen  gods  among  us?  ” 

“And  if  he  should  succeed!”  There 
was  a  hint  of  mockery  in  Beriah’s  voice. 
“  What  does  it  matter  whether  we  pay  our 
vows  to  the  1  God  of  our  fathers’,  or  bow 
before  the  ivy-crowned  Bacchus  these 
Syrians  worship  ?  ” 

“  This  is  blasphemy!  ”  cried  Judas,  and 
his  face  grew  hard  and  white. 

But  Beriah  laughed  gayly,  and  threw  a 
caressing  arm  about  his  friend’s  shoulder. 
“  I  did  but  wish  to  torment  thee,”  he 
insisted.  “  Yet  thou  knowest  how  I  have 
always  shared  the  Greek’s  joy  in  the  sun¬ 
shine  and  color  of  life,  joy  in  the  swiftness 


100 


FRIENDS 


of  the  runner  in  his  gymnasium,  joy  in  the 
marble  images  of  his  beautiful  gods.  All 
this  I  shall  have  at  Antioch.”  Suddenly  his 
merry  face  grew  grave.  “  But  I  shall  miss 
thee,  my  Judas,”  he  murmured. 

“  Yea,”  answered  Judas,  and  he  could 
say  no  more. 

They  had  reached  the  turn  in  the  road, 
where  for  a  long  time  they  stood  in  silence. 
An  evening  wind  stirred  the  leaves  of  the 
trees;  there  was  no  sound  but  the  faint, 
sleepy  chirping  of  birds.  In  the  years  to 
come  Judas  could  never  remember  that 
peaceful  sunset  without  a  throb  of  pain. 
Beriah  was  the  first  to  speak,  and  his  voice 
trembled  a  little. 

“  Some  day,  O  Judas  my  brother,  I  will 
return  from  Antioch,  and  we  will  be  as 
brothers  again.  Farewell.” 

Judas  tried  to  speak,  but  could  not. 
He  clasped  Beriah’s  hand,  and,  turning 
abruptly,  walked  slowly  back  to  Modin. 
Beriah,  watching  him,  with  all  the  mockery 


101 


FRIENDS 


gone  from  his  merry  dark  eyes,  understood. 
It  was  their  first  parting. 

Two  years  later  when  Beriah  returned 
to  Modin,  he  found  that  his  master’s  envoy 
had  preceded  him.  For  the  king’s  soldiers 
had  come  to  compel  the  people  to  sacrifice 
to  the  idols  of  the  heathen,  and  the  public 
square  of  Modin  was  filled  with  an  eager, 
tense  multitude,  whispering  tales  of  the 
Syrian  king,  the  cities  of  Israel  he  had 
ravaged  in  his  anger,  the  terrible  punish¬ 
ments  he  had  dealt  out  to  those  Jews  who 
would  not  bow  down  to  his  gods.  Now 
his  soldiers  stood  quiet  and  watchful  before 
the  altar  they  had  erected  in  the  market¬ 
place,  like  so  many  statues  before  a  shrine, 
while  the  men  of  Modin  gazed  from  the 
straight,  shining  figures  to  their  priest  Mat- 
tathias,  who  stood  near  by  surrounded  by 
his  five  sturdy  sons.  Sturdiest  and  tallest 
among  them  was  Judas;  he  towered  above 
them,  quiet  and  watchful;  his  face  was  like 
a  sword  as  he  waited. 


102 


FRIENDS 


“  Judas! — Judas,  my  brother!  ”  cried  a 
voice  trembling  with  eagerness,  and,  turn- 
ing,  Judas  gazed  into  Beriah’s  eyes.  The 
boy  was  flushed  and  breathless  as  he  flung 
his  arms  about  his  old  friend.  “  Hast  thou 
forgotten  me,  my  Judas?  ”  he  reproached 
him.  “  Or  am  I  so  changed  that  thou  dost 
not  recognize  me?  ” 

Judas,  who  had  uttered  a  low  cry  of  joy 
as  he  drew  the  lad  to  him,  now  stepped 
back,  his  mouth  growing  hard,  his  eyes 
stern,  as  they  wandered  over  Beriah’s 
Grecian  robes,  the  jewelled  chains  and 
bracelets  about  his  neck  and  arms.  “  In 
truth,  it  is  not  easy  to  recognize  thee,”  he 
said  bitterly. 

“  In  Antioch  a  rich  man’s  son  cannot 
dress  like  a  bond-servant,”  Beriah  pro¬ 
tested.  “  I  will  lay  aside  the  king’s  livery 
to-morrow,  but  now — hast  thou  no  word 
of  welcome  for  me?  I  have  made  many 
friends  in  Antioch,  but  none  like  thee,  my 
beloved  brother !  Only  a  month  ago 


103 


FRIENDS 


I  was  offered  a  post  in  the  household  of 
Antiochus;  yet  I  could  not  bear  the  thought 
of  remaining  longer  from  Modin  where  I 
could  not  see  thy  face.”  With  his  char¬ 
acteristic  swiftness  he  removed  one  of  the 
golden  chains  he  wore,  and,  before  Judas 
could  prevent  him,  flung  it  about  his 
friend’s  neck.  “  Say  that  thou  hast  missed 
me  a  little,”  he  pleaded. 

“  I  have  missed  thee,”  answered  Judas 
with  a  look  in  his  eyes  that  made  the  simple 
words  very  eloquent.  “  Yea,  I  have  missed 
thee  sorely.” 

“  Ah,  Beriah!  ”  exclaimed  a  newcomer. 
“  And  fresh  from  Antioch !  ” 

“  Tell  us  of  Antiochus!  ”  cried  another. 
“  What  of  the  king?” 

“  Ay,  what  of  the  king — dare  we  resist 
him?  ”  murmured  many  voices. 

They  pushed  Beriah  upon  the  steps  of 
the  newly-reared  altar.  He  stood  there, 
his  slight  figure  poised  above  the  upturned 
faces  of  the  multitude,  the  sunshine  stream- 


104 


FRIENDS 


ing  upon  his  fluttering  yellow  garments  and 
dark,  proudly  erect,  head.  Beriah  held  up 
his  hand  for  silence. 

“  I  have  seen  the  glittering  lines  of  the 
armies  of  Antiochus,”  cried  Beriah.  “  I 
know  his  strength.  He  can  crush  all  Judea 
as  easily  as  a  child  crushes  a  swallow’s  egg 
in  his  fingers.”  The  people  swayed  and 
murmured,  for  they  knew  that  he  spoke  the 
truth.  And  they  were  afraid.  Beriah 
leaned  toward  them,  his  face  glowing,  his 
eyes  burning  with  excitement.  “  But  this 
Antiochus  is  as  merciful  as  he  is  strong. 
If  ye  will  but  yield  to  his  will  and  bow 
before  the  gods  he  has  set  up  in  your  midst, 
he  will  bestow  gold  and  honors  upon  you 
and  your  children.”  His  light  hands  flut¬ 
tered  over  the  shining  ornaments  he  wore. 
“  Should  ye  be  mad  enough  to  resist 
him — ”  he  shrugged  as  he  brushed  the  hair 
back  from  his  forehead,  “  friends,  I  fear 
the  God  of  our  fathers  will  not  save  those 
who  disregard  the  lav/  of  the  king.” 


105 


FRIENDS 


A  long  silence  followed,  broken  only  by 
the  murmurs  of  the  multitude.  Beriah 
stepped  down  from  the  altar,  and  forced 
his  way  back  to  judas.  The  mockery  had 
vanished  from  his  eyes,  and,  as  he  raised 
them  to  his  friend’s  face,  they  were  filled 
with  a  great  fear.  Judas  spoke  not  a  word; 
he  stared  straight  before  him,  his  eyes 
fastened  upon  the  altar  where  the  Syrian 
envoy  now  stood.  With  his  strong  hands 
he  slowly  broke  to  pieces  the  gold  chain 
Beriah  had  flung  about  his  neck. 

“  Thou  art  an  honored  man  in  this  city,” 
began  the  king’s  envoy,  as  he  turned  to 
Mattathias,  the  old  priest.  “  Therefore 
come  thou  first,  and  fulfil  the  king’s  com¬ 
mand:  so  shalt  thou  and  thy  house  be  in 
the  number  of  the  king’s  friends,  and  thou 
and  thy  children  shall  be  honored  with 
silver  and  gold  and  many  rewards.” 

The  five  tall  sons  of  Mattathias  gathered 
closer  about  their  father.  From  beneath 
the  robe  of  Judas  there  glimmered  the  flash 


106 


FRIENDS 


of  steel;  or  was  it  only  the  sunlight  spark¬ 
ling  upon  the  chain  he  held  in  his  hands? 
The  crowd  waited  breathlessly  for  the  old 
man’s  answer. 

At  last  he  spoke,  and  his  voice  was  very 
quiet.  “  Though  all  the  nations  that  are 
under  the  king’s  control  obey  him  and  fall 
away  from  the  religion  of  their  fathers,  yet 
will  I  and  my  sons  and  my  brethren  walk 
in  the  covenant  of  our  fathers  and  not  for¬ 
get  His  lav/.  We  will  not  hearken  to  the 
king’s  words  to  go  from  our  religion,  either 
to  the  right  hand  or  to  the  left.  But  we 
will  forever  walk  in  the  ways  our  fathers 
kept  before  us.” 

The  envoy  paled  with  rage.  “  Thou 
and  thy  sons  and  thy  brethren  shall  die,” 
he  thundered,  “  but  all  who  sacrifice  upon 
the  altar  and  do  reverence  unto  the  Syrian 
gods,  such  will  the  king  reward  with  honors 
and  great  riches.” 

Even  as  he  finished  speaking,  a  Jew  who 
had  long  loved  the  ways  of  the  heathen  in 


107 


FRIENDS 


his  heart,  stepped'  from  the  crowd,  and 
advanced  toward  the  altar.  As  he  was 
about  to  scatter  incense  upon  the  flame,  a 
triumphant  leer  curling  his  mouth,  Mat- 
tathias  wrenched  the  sword  from  the 
envoy’s  hand  and  plunged  it  into  the 
traitor’s  breast.  The  man  reeled,  stag¬ 
gered,  and  fell,  his  fumbling  hands  clutch¬ 
ing  at  the  wreaths  about  the  altar  and  pull¬ 
ing  them  down  upon  his  lifeless  face. 

The  envoy  started  forward,  but  he  was 
too  late.  The  sons  of  Mattathias  surged 
forward,  a  living  wall  about  their  father, 
who  stood  erect  in  their  midst,  the  blood¬ 
stained  sword  in  his  hand.  From  beneath 
their  robes  flashed  swords;  they  were  like 
young  lions  ready  to  spring  upon  their  prey. 
Man  after  man  from  the  crowd  joined 
them,  snatching  swords  and  spears  from 
the  unprepared  Syrians,  as  they  pressed 
about  their  priest.  Before  they  had  seemed 
like  dry  wood,  incapable  of  action;  now 
the  spark  had  touched  them,  and  they  were 


108 


FRIENDS 


like  a  devouring  fire.  Above  them,  on  the 
altar  steps,  where  the  Syrian  envoy  lay 
dying  beside  the  Jewish  traitor,  stood  Mat- 
tathias  like  an  avenging  spirit,  his  crim¬ 
soned  sword  a  banner  above  his  head.  His 
old  voice  rang  like  a  trumpet  blast  above 
the  shouting  of  the  mob. 

“  Whosoever  is  zealous  for  the  Law,” 
cried  Mattathias,  “  follow  me  !  ” 

“  Lead,  and  we  will  follow  !  ”  thundered 
the  men  of  Modin. 

Beriah  from  the  outskirts  of  the  crowd 
gazed  wistfully  at  Judas,  cold  and  quiet, 
a  drawn  sword  in  his  hand.  Then  he 
turned  his  face  to  Antioch,  and  left  the 
home  of  his  fathers  forever. 

But  on  the  eve  of  the  battle  of  Beth 
Horon,  the  friends  met  once  more.  A 
man,  foot-sore  and  weary,  crept  into  the 
camp  of  Israel,  and  begged  to  be  led  before 
Judas,  the  commander  of  the  Jewish  host. 
Once  within  the  tent  of  Judas  the  Macca- 
bee,  he  stood  swaying  from  very  weakness, 


109 


FRIENDS 


for  he  had  made  a  long  journey  and  was 
well-nigh  exhausted.  In  spite  of  the  dust 
of  the  road  and  the  tattered  Syrian  gar¬ 
ments  he  wore,  Judas  knew  him  to  be 
Beriah.  They  stood  gazing  at  each  other 
speechlessly. 

At  last  Beriah  spoke,  faltering  in  his 
words,  for  he  was  very  tired.  “  I  am  a 
fugitive  from  the  Syrian  camp.  I  no  longer 
serve  in  the  armies  of  Antiochus.” 

But  Judas  did  not  speak.  His  great 
hands  played  about  his  sword  hilt. 

Beriah  drew  nearer.  “  Do  not  turn 
away  from  me,”  he  pleaded.  “  I  have 
never  known  an  hour’s  peace  since  the  day 
I  deserted  the  faith  of  my  fathers.  Some¬ 
thing  within  me  always  cried  out  against 
my  treason.  I  felt  myself  branded  a 
coward  when  I  saw  men  and  women,  yea, 
even  young  children,  suffer  torture  and 
death  rather  than  obey  the  king.  Three 
days  ago  my  men  brought  a  widow  and  her 
seven  sons  before  Antiochus.  He  bade 


110 


FRIENDS 


them  bow  to  his  gods  and  live,  but  they 
would  not  listen  to  his  words.  He  besought 
their  mother  to  plead  with  them,  lest  they 
all  die  in  torment;  but  she  implored  them  to 
die  rather  than  forsake  the  Law  of  their 
fathers.”  He  pushed  back  the  dusty  hair 
from  his  forehead,  the  old  familiar  gesture 
lashing  Judas  like  a  whip  across  the  face. 
“  That  night  I  cast  aside  my  Syrian  armor; 
I  broke  the  sword  I  had  taken  from  the 
hand  of  Antiochus,  and  came  to  thee.” 

Judas’s  fingers  had  crept  to  the  collar  of 
his  tunic;  he  seemed  to  breathe  with  diffi¬ 
culty.  Beriah  threw  himself  before  him, 
and  tried  to  catch  his  robe. 

“  Do  not  send  me  away,”  he  urged  in 
broken  entreaty.  “  I  lie  in  shame  at  thy 
feet.  I  am  unworthy  to  do  battle  for  the 
God  I  have  deserted  and  despised;  I  am 
unworthy  of  thy  brotherly  trust,  thy  love. 
Yet  give  me  a  place  among  thy  men,  that 
I,  too,  may  strike  a  blow  for  Israel  and  die 
a  clean  man  fighting  for  my  God.” 


Ill 


FRIENDS 


Judas  turned  to  the  soldier  who  kept 
watch  at  the  door  of  his  tent.  His  face  had 
grown  old  and  weary;  but  he  stood  straight 
and  tall,  nor  did  he  glance  at  the  crumpled 
figure,  sobbing  upon  the  ground.  “  Give 
this  man  food,  and  allow  him  to  rest  before 
he  leaves  our  camp,”  he  said  clearly,  and 
passed  out  into  the  darkness.  Beriah  con¬ 
tinued  to  sob,  for  his  spirit  was  broken. 

After  the  battle  of  Beth  Horon,  the  vic¬ 
torious  Jews  found  Beriah’s  body  among 
their  slain.  The  wounds  were  in  the 
breast;  the  traitor  had  fallen  while  fighting 
for  the  God  he  had  for  a  time  denied.  His 
face  wore  again  the  smile  of  his  boyhood, 
and  Judas  the  Maccabee  covered  his  own 
face  with  his  hands  when  he  saw  that  look. 
“  Brother!  ”  he  said  softly,  and  a  smile  of 
peace  trembled  for  a  moment  about  his 
tired  mouth. 


112 


THE  GREAT  HOPE 

(A  Story  for  the  Sabbath  of  Consolation.) 

When  the  Roman  soldiers  drove  the 
wailing  women  and  children  through  the 
streets  of  Jerusalem,  only  two  souls  came 
forth  from  the  ruined  home  of  Simon  ben 
David.  The  father  and  his  three  tall  sons 
had  perished  during  the  siege  of  the  city, 
and  on  the  day  the  Temple  fell  the  wife 
of  Simon  lay  dying,  her  new-born  son  at 
her  breast.  So  when  the  soldiers  drove  the 
survivors  forth  into  exile  and  slavery,  only 
twelve-year-old  Leah  left  her  father’s 
house,  her  tiny  baby  brother  clasped  in 
her  arms. 

All  distinctions  of  rank  and  wealth  were 
forgotten.  Leah,  whose  father  had  been 
of  a  princely  house,  now  limped  wearily 
beside  Nathaniel,  the  young  son  of  one  of 
his  bondmen.  Once  Leah  had  been  the  only 


113 


THE  GREAT  HOPE 


daughter  of  a  wealthy  and  noble  family, 
and  Nathaniel  had  been  too  humble  to 
raise  his  eyes  to  her  as  she  walked  in  the 
gardens  of  her  father’s  estate;  now,  her 
dainty  garments  soiled  with  the  dust  of 
the  road,  her  hair  disheveled,  her  white 
face  pinched  and  drawn  with  hunger,  she 
W’as  grateful  to  the  young  servant  for  his 
care  of  her,  and  looked  upon  him  as  upon 
a  brother. 

That  night  when  the  scanty  food  allowed 
the  captives  was  distributed,  Nathaniel 
managed  to  secure  a  cruse  of  goat’s  milk, 
and,  kindling  a  fire,  warmed  the  milk  before 
he  brought  it  to  Leah  for  her  baby  brother. 
The  child  lay  moaning  faintly  in  his  sis¬ 
ter’s  arms.  She  tried  to  warm  it  on  her 
breast  and  murmured  loving  words  to  it, 
as  she  had  heard  the  mothers  of  other  tiny 
children  murmur  when  their  babies  were 
restless  or  ill.  Nathaniel  sat  by  her  side, 
and  his  face  was  very  tender  as  he  watched 
her. 


114 


THE  GREAT  HOPE 


Leah  coaxed  the  child  into  drinking  a 
little  of  the  warm  milk,  smiling  faintly 
when  she  saw  him  go  off  to  sleep. 
Nathaniel  put  out  his  arms  for  the  little 
one,  and  begged  to  be  allowed  to  hold  him; 
but  she  shook  her  head. 

“  Thou  art  so  tired,”  he  said.  “  See, 
I  have  spread  my  cloak  for  thee,  and  since 
we  shall  not  leave  this  place  until  daybreak, 
I  want  thee  to  lie  down  and  try  to  sleep  a 
little.  I  will  guard  the  little  one  and  see 
that  he  comes  to  no  harm.” 

But  Leah  would  not  let  him  touch  the 
child.  “  He  is  all  I  have  in  the  world,” 
she  answered,  “  for  they — the  others — are 
gone,  and  I  shall  never  see  them  again. 
Yea,  I  am  more  miserable  than  other 
orphans,  for  I  have  no  home  nor  country, 
and  the  city  of  my  fathers  has  been  laid 
waste.”  Her  sobs  choked  her  as  she  turned 
her  eyes  toward  the  ruins  of  Jerusalem, 
grim  and  forsaken  in  the  moonlight.  “  Our 
Temple  lies  desolate,”  sobbed  the  girl, 


115 


THE  GREAT  HOPE 


“  and  its  golden  ornaments  have  been  pol¬ 
luted.  Would  that  I  had  died  with  my 
mother,  rather  than  live  the  daughter  of  a 
captive  and  homeless  race.” 

She  lay  upon  the  ground  now,  her  face 
hidden  in  the  cloak  she  had  wrapped  about 
her  brother.  Nathaniel  timidly  smoothed 
her  tangled  hair,  and  sought  to  comfort 
her. 

“  Weep,  if  thou  wilt,  for  those  whose 
death  has  left  you  an  orphan  even  as  I 
am,”  he  said,  “  but  do  not  grieve  that  the 
Lord  has  afflicted  Zion.  For  it  is  for  our 
sins,  and  He  will  not  keep  His  anger  for¬ 
ever.  Again  and  again  have  I  heard  my 
father’s  father  say  that  the  Lord  of  Israel 
would  punish  His  people  for  forgetting 
Him  and  for  their  hardness  of  heart  to  the 
poor  and  the  oppressed.  But  my  grand¬ 
father  also  said  that  the  Lord  would  only 
purify  us  through  suffering,  as  fine  gold  is 
purified  through  fire — that  He  would 
destroy  Jerusalem,  even  the  Temple  in  the 


116 


THE  GREAT  HOPE 


midst  of  her,  but  that  some  day  He  would 
bring  back  the  desolate  children  of  Israel 
unto  their  own  land.” 

Leah’s  sobs  ceased  as  she  listened. 
When  Nathaniel  had  finished  speaking,  she 
raised  her  head  and  answered  him,  her 
voice  trembling  with  a  new  hope.  “  I 
remember  thy  grandfather,  Nathaniel. 
My  father  once  told  me  that  he  was  a  man 
who  walked  with  God.  What  thy  grand¬ 
father  spoke  must  come  to  pass.  Did  he 
indeed  say  that  our  Temple  would  be 
rebuilt?  ” 

Here  a  woman  among  the  captives  broke 
into  loud  weeping.  Leah’s  heart  swelled 
with  pity  as  she  listened,  and  suddenly  she 
clung  to  Nathaniel,  sobbing:  “  But  we 
shall  not  return  !  How  can  a  people  broken 
as  we  are  ever  be  healed?  ” 

“  Nay,”  answered  Nathaniel,  and  his 
eyes  grew  large  with  his  dream.  “  Nay, 
He  who  destroys  will  also  build  up,  said  my 
grandfather.  For  once  he  told  me  that  on 


117 


THE  GREAT  HOPE 


the  very  day  the  Temple  was  destroyed,  a 
Messiah  would  be  born  who  would  some 
day  lead  our  people  back  to  Zion  in  triumph 
and  with  songs  of  gladness.” 

“  Nathaniel,”  breathed  Leah,  half  fear¬ 
fully,  yet  with  a  strange  joy  in  her  white 
face,  “  Nathaniel,  my  father  was  of  the 
line  of  David  from  which  the  kings  of 
Israel  have  sprung.  And  he,  my  brother, 
was  born  yesterday,  the  very  day  on  which 
the  Temple  fell.” 

They  said  no  more,  but  looked  at 
each  other  with  shining  eyes.  The  fire 
Nathaniel  had  kindled  had  long  since  died 
out,  but  in  the  clear  moonlight  he  saw 
Leah’s  pale  face,  radiant  with  holy  joy. 
Hardly  knowing  that  he  did  so,  he  kissed 
the  hem  of  the  sleeping  child’s  garment. 

“  From  this  day  forth  thou  must  let  me 
serve  thee  and  him,”  whispered  Nathaniel 
in  a  voice  that  was  deeply  humble,  yet  aglow 
with  pride.  “  Now  lie  down  and  sleep, 
and  I  will  keep  watch  over  thee  and  the 


118 


THE  GREAT  HOPE 


little  one  until  morning.  My  grandfather 
would  have  died  happy,  had  he  known  that 
I  would  be  allowed  to  serve  the  child 
destined  to  become  the  redeemer  of  Israel.” 

When  Leah  awoke,  the  eastern  sky  was 
rosy  with  dawn.  She  turned  to  Nathaniel 
who  knelt  upon  the  ground,  bending  over 
her  sleeping  brother.  A  look  at  her  com¬ 
panion’s  face  told  her  the  truth,  and  she 
clung  to  him  for  comfort. 

It  was  a  long  time  before  either  of  the 
two  could  speak.  Then  Nathaniel  said  in 
a  broken  voice:  “He  was  so  little  and 
weak — he  could  not  live  without  his 
mother.  He  was  not  chosen  to  lead  us 
back  after  all.  Perhaps  another  child  born 
yesterday  will  be  our  Messiah — or  perhaps 
my  grandfather  did  not  know — and  the 
great  king  of  Israel  is  yet  to  be  born.” 

Leah  slipped  from  his  arms,  and,  kiss¬ 
ing  her  brother’s  forehead,  covered  the 
child’s  face  with  the  cloak.  She  turned  her 
eyes  to  the  ruins  of  the  Temple  which  the 


9 


119 


THE  GREAT  EIOPE 


rising  sun  clothed  in  a  glory  of  crimson  and 
gold.  It  was  like  the  coronation  robe  of 
a  mighty  king — the  king  who  would  gather 
the  outcasts  of  Israel  and  bring  them  back 
to  their  own  land.  She  threw  back  her 
weary  shoulders,  and  raised  her  head  like 
a  queen;  for  she  remembered  that  she  was 
of  a  royal  line,  that  she  came  of  a  house 
of  priests  and  prophets  and  kings. 

“  Nathaniel,”  said  Leah  simply,  “  in  a 
few  years  I  will  grow  into  womanhood, 
and  since  I  am  of  the  house  of  David,  per¬ 
haps  my  own  son  will  be  the  Messiah.” 


120 


THE  GOLDEN  RING 

(A  Story  for  Lag  be-'Omer.) 

The  spring  sunshine  streamed  through 
the  narrow  window,  bathing  Rachel  in  its 
pleasant  warmth,  as  she  sat  upon  her  bed, 
her  work-worn  hands  idly  plucking  at  the 
small  leather  bag  in  her  lap.  It  was  empty. 
Until  she  could  earn  a  few  coins  by  her 
spinning,  she  would  have  to  go  hungry, 
unless  she  appealed  for  charity;  and  this 
the  daughter  of  the  wealthy  landowner, 
Kalba  Sabua,  could  not  bring  herself  to  do. 

Her  tired  eyes  fell  upon  the  ring  she 
wore,  a  richly-set  ornament,  contrasting 
strangely  with  her  ragged  garments.  If 
she  should  sell  the  ring  to  Eben  the  gold¬ 
smith,  she  would  be  able  to  purchase  food 
for  many  days,  even  a  new  robe  and  san¬ 
dals  for  herself.  But  she  shook  her  head, 
smiling  a  little  wistfully  as  she  recalled  the 
spring  day  long  ago  when  Akiba  had  placed 


121 


THE  GOLDEN  RING 


the  ring  upon  her  finger,  and  she  had 
dreamed  of  twining  the  bridal  wreath  of 
myrtle  amid  the  locks  of  her  dark  hair. 

She  was  the  only  child  of  Kalba  Sabua, 
in  those  days  an  heiress  to  his  vast  wealth, 
and  very  beautiful.  In  those  pleasant  far- 
off  times  many  suitors  sought  her  hand  in 
marriage,  but  she  would  not  listen  to  their 
wooing,  for  she  loved  Akiba  who  tended 
her  father’s  flock  upon  the  hills. 

Yet  not  only  was  he  poor,  and  ignorant 
of  the  Law,  but  he  was  said  to  have  uttered 
bitter  words  against  the  teachers  and  sages 
of  Israel.  This  had  grieved  Rachel,  and, 
unobserved  by  her  handmaidens,  she  had 
often  sought  out  the  shepherd  as  he  watched 
his  flock  upon  the  hill-side,  and  tried  to 
awaken  in  his  heart  a  love  for  the  Law 
which  he  pretended  to  despise.  Slowly 
there  grew  in  Akiba’s  heart  a  love  for  this 
gentle,  pious  maiden,  and  with  it  a  great 
yearning  to  become  a  learned  man  for  her 
sake,  and  to  wear  the  scholar’s  crown. 


THE  GOLDEN  RING 


“  But  I  can  never  become  a  scholar  in 
Israel,”  he  said  sadly  to  Rachel,  “  for  I  am 
too  poor  to  journey  to  the  academies  where 
the  Rabbis  teach  the  Law.  And  why  should 
I  labor  for  many  years  to  win  a  name  for 
myself,  when  I  am  the  last  of  my  race  and 
have  no  kith  or  kin  to  share  my  glory?  ” 

“  But  thy  glory  will  be  my  glory,”  Rachel 
answered  him  quickly.  “  Tell  me,  Akiba, 
if  I  should  become  thy  wife,  wouldst  thou, 
out  of  love  for  me,  become  first  a  pupil, 
and  then  a  teacher,  of  the  sages?  ” 

So  they  were  betrothed  in  secret,  for  they 
feared  the  anger  of  Rachel’s  father,  who, 
they  knew,  would  never  accept  an  ignorant 
shepherd  as  his  son-in-law. 

“  And  in  truth  I  have  naught  but  my 
poverty  to  offer  thee,”  sighed  Akiba.  “  I 
cannot  even  purchase  thee  the  ring  of 
betrothal.” 

Then,  laughing  softly,  Rachel  drew  from 
her  bosom  a  gold  ring  richly  set  with  gems 
and  of  a  fantastic  pattern.  “  It  was  my 


123 


THE  GOLDEN  RING 


mother’s  betrothal  ring,”  she  said;  “  my 
dear  mother,  who  died  when  I  was  born. 
My  father  tells  me  that  I  am  very  much 
like  her,  but  that  I  cannot  believe,  for  her 
old  nurse  often  speaks  of  her  grace  and 
loveliness.  I  know  that  she  rejoices  that  I 
have  found  a  husband,  and  is  glad  that  her 
ring  will  seal  our  betrothal.” 

That  very  day  Akiba  placed  the  ring 
upon  her  hand,  and  it  had  never  left  her 
finger,  not  even  during  the  trials  of  their 
greatest  poverty,  after  Rachel’s  father,  in 
his  anger  at  their  marriage,  had  driven 
them  out  into  the  world.  They  had  eaten 
bitter  bread,  and  slept  upon  straw,  but 
Akiba  would  never  permit  his  wife  to  part 
with  the  betrothal  ring.  Even  when  he 
desired  to  travel  to  the  academy  at  Lydda, 
Akiba  had  forbidden  her  to  sell  her  golden 
ornament,  though  he  knew  that  he  could  not 
set  out  on  the  journey  with  an  empty  purse. 

Sitting  upon  her  bed  with  the  warm 
spring  sunshine  falling  about  her,  Rachel 


124 


THE  GOLDEN  RING 


recalled  the  day  when  she  sold  her  beautiful 
long  hair  for  a  few  pieces  of  gold.  She 
could  still  remember  her  husband’s  look  of 
glad  surprise  when  she  counted  the  money 
into  his  hand;  she  could  still  smile  to  recall 
his  grief  when  she  removed  her  veil  and 
he  caressed  her  shorn  head  with  trembling 
hands  as  he  whispered:  “Some  day,  best 
of  wives,  I  will  buy  thee  a  golden  Jerusalem 
for  thy  head.*  Be  patient,  and  wait  till  I 
return.” 

And  Rachel  had  waited!  Her  neigh¬ 
bors  had  flung  rude  jests  at  her;  others  sym¬ 
pathized  with  her  loneliness  and  poverty, 
and  considered  her  a  deserted  wife,  and 
this  was  still  harder  to  bear.  No  one 
believed  that  Akiba  would  return  to  her, 
and  to-day  even  Rachel  felt  hope  dying  in 
her  heart  as  she  sat  twisting  the  ring  upon 
her  thin,  brown  finger. 

*  A  golden  head-band  stamped  with  the  image  of 
Jerusalem  was  worn  by  the  wealthy  Jewish  women 
of  that  day. 


125 


THE  GOLDEN  RING 


She  was  roused  from  her  musings  by  a 
knock  at  the  door.  Upon  the  threshold 
stood  an  old  man  leaning  upon  a  staff  and 
dressed  in  rags. 

“  Bread,  my  daughter,”  he  murmured 
faintly,  “  give  me  bread !  ” 

He  tottered  across  the  floor  and  fell  upon 
the  bed,  half-swooning  from  very  weakness. 

Rachel  sprang  up  to  help  him,  and  then 
stood  perplexed.  What  had  she  to  give 
him  ?  And  yet  to  turn  away  the  aged  man 
was  impossible  for  the  wife  of  Akiba,  who 
had  once  given  a  beggar  the  very  straw 
from  the  bed  on  which  she  slept.  Should 
she  go  to  a  neighbor  and  beg  food  for  the 
starving  old  man?  Her  cheeks  flamed  at 
the  thought  of  confessing  that  there  was 
not  a  morsel  of  bread  in  the  house.  Yet 
she  must  have  food  for  this  feeble  man, 
not  only  for  one  day  but  until  he  felt  strong 
enough  to  go  on  his  way;  for,  since  he  had 
come  to  her  hut,  Rachel  felt  that  she,  and 
no  one  else,  must  supply  all  his  wants. 


126 


THE  GOLDEN  RING 


Almost  unconsciously  she  twirled  the 
glittering  ring  upon  her  finger.  Her  hus¬ 
band  had  never  permitted  her  to  sell  it 
for  their  own  needs,  but  she  knew  that  he 
would  wish  her  to  sacrifice  the  ornament 
for  the  sake  of  the  old  man’s  comfort. 
She  wavered  only  for  a  moment;  then, 
promising  to  return  at  once,  Rachel  left 
her  house,  and  hurried  toward  the  shop  of 
Eben  the  goldsmith. 

Out  on  the  street,  she  was  struck  by 
the  unusual  tumult  in  the  market-place. 
“  Why  are  so  many  gathered  in  front  of 
the  synagogue?  ”  she  asked  a  neighbor  who 
pushed  past  her. 

“  Hast  thou  not  heard?  A  famous 
Rabbi,  a  new  teacher  in  Israel,  has  come 
to  our  town,  followed  by  all  his  disciples,” 
answered  the  woman. 

They  reached  the  crowd  that  blocked 
the  street  before  the  synagogue.  The 
townspeople  swayed  and  jostled  each  other 
in  their  eagerness  to  catch  a  glimpse  of  the 


127 


THE  GOLDEN  RING 


great  Rabbi  who  had  just  arrived  in  their 
midst.  Then  there  was  silence  as  all 
pressed  forward,  eager  to  listen  to  the 
stranger’s  words. 

Rachel’s  worn  hands  clasped  themselves 
upon  her  breast,  and  her  parted  lips 
trembled.  Surely,  surely,  she  was  dream¬ 
ing,  for  she  had  ceased  to  hope  ever  to 
hear  Akiba’s  voice  again.  And  yet — -per¬ 
haps — God  was  good  to  her,  and,  after  all 
these  years  of  waiting,  Akiba  had  come 
back  as  a  disciple  of  the  Rabbi  whom  the 
people  had  gathered  to  honor.  Half  fear¬ 
fully,  moving  as  one  who  dreads  to  break 
her  dream,  Rachel  slipped  through  the 
crowd,  her  face  pale  and  eager  with  the 
prayer  she  dared  not  utter.  And  as  she 
looked  upon  the  new  teacher  in  Israel,  she 
stood  swaying  for  a  moment,  for  she  saw 
that  he  was  indeed  Akiba  her  husband,  com¬ 
ing  back  to  her  at  last.  Then  the  long 
years  of  loneliness  fell  from  her,  and  it 
seemed  as  though  he  had  never  left  her  side. 


128 


THE  GOLDEN  RING 


Unmindful  of  the  multitude,  forgetting  her 
rags  and  her  unloveliness,  she  ran  to  him 
as  eagerly  as  in  the  old  days  when  he  had 
tended  her  father’s  flock  upon  the  hill-side. 

Those  standing  about  him  were  pushing 
her  aside.  “Stand  back,  woman!”  said 
one  of  the  disciples.  But  Akiba  had 
already  seen  her.  He  held  out  his  arms  to 
her,  and  drew  her  tired  head  to  rest  upon 
his  breast.  “  What  I  am,”  he  told  .his  dis¬ 
ciples,  “  I  could  never  have  become,  if  it 
had  not  been  for  her.” 

Hand  in  hand,  silent  in  their  great  joy, 
they  walked  slowly  to  the  hut  where  he  had 
bidden  her  good-bye  so  many  years  ago. 
It  was  not  until  they  stood  upon  the  thresh¬ 
old  that  she  was  able  to  speak.  “  Our  ring,” 
she  murmured,  withdrawing  her  fingers 
from  his,  “  I  did  not  sell  it  after  all.  And 
now  we  can  help  the  old  man  who  came  to 
me  for  bread.” 

And  Akiba  said:  “Thanks  to  God, 
beloved,  we  shall  begin  our  new  life 


129 


THE  GOLDEN  RING 


together  in  aiding  the  unhappy.”  And  he 
kissed  his  wife.  She  pushed  the  door  open. 

“  Where  is  he?  ”  she  asked  in  wonder, 
a  note  of  awe  creeping  into  her  voice. 

For  the  room  was  empty;  but  on  the  bed 
where  the  old  man  had  rested  lay  a  wreath 
of  fair  myrtle,  such  as  brides  wear  upon 
their  wedding  day,  and  the  air  was  sweet 
with  its  fragrance. 


130 


